Page 33 of Raising Love
We’d discovered the issue during a late-night emergency call with Baby Love’s doctor—a luxury made possible by the trust fund. Instead of taking him to a traditional office, we’d hired a doctor who made house calls. They assured us Baby Love was growing well and thriving.
But knowing didn’t make those nights easier.
It was like clockwork. Midnight would strike, and Baby Love would cry. And cry. And cry. It didn’t stop until dawn began breaking over the horizon.
Leo and I tag-teamed, rocking him for hours, taking turns dozing off and risking dropping him. Last night had been one of the hardest.
The phone stopped ringing, only to start again.
“What?” I groaned into my pillow. “Go away.”
Finally having a chance to sleep, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even myself.
There was a concert scheduled for tonight. One I’d gone to every year for the past five years with Kendra, Tyrell, and Leo.
I hadn’t even considered attending. I didn’t have the energy to think about it, let alone make plans.
My phone started ringing for the third time.
At this point, I was too annoyed to ignore it. Begrudgingly, I lifted my head and reached for the phone. My arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Dragging my tired eyes to the screen, I saw a name that made me sit up straight in bed: Mrs. Rachel Simmons.
Kendra’s mother.
“Mrs. Simmons, hello,” I rasped into the phone, clearing my throat as I adjusted to a sitting position. “How are you?”
She chuckled softly on the other end of the line, pausing to catch her breath. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”
I let out a weary laugh, dropping my head into my hands.
“How’s it going over there?” she asked.
“Great,” I lied. “We’re all great.”
“You don’t sound it.”
I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes tightly.
I had purposely avoided reaching out to the Simmons. They were still grieving the loss of their daughter, and the last thing I wanted was to burden them with our struggles. Leo and I were grieving, too, but it wasn’t the same. This was something we had to figure out ourselves.
“I’m just a little tired,” I admitted. “We had a very fun night last night. And yes, I am being sarcastic.”
Mrs. Simmons burst into laughter, and despite my exhaustion, I found myself chuckling along.
“Lawd, it’s been a long while, but I remember those nights very well,” she said warmly. “What is it? Y’all sleep training? Is he teething? Got gas?”
“Colic,” I said with a nod, even though she couldn’t see me. “That godforsaken colic.”
She giggled knowingly.
I frowned as I rubbed my aching eyes. “I don’t understand how he can cry for so long without running out of breath.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, the understanding clear in her tone.
“He’s been colicky for a whole week now. Always at night, for three straight hours,” I explained. “Then he falls asleep for maybe fifteen minutes before he’s up again. He finally went down an hour ago.”
“Well, why didn’t you call us?”
