Then she reached up, unhooked Ava from the carrier, and gently handed her to me. “I haven’t eaten with both hands in weeks,” she said, wiping her cheeks. So I held Ava. Rocked her while Maya went to get herself a bowl of warm soup. “It’s strange to eat without stopping to shush or bounce or wipe spit-up,” Maya said as she took a bite of her bread roll. “That’s why I’m here,” I smiled.
And in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Gratitude. Not theirs, mine. Three weeks passed. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating my way through a slice of banana bread when my phone rang. It was Claire.
Her voice cracked the second she said hello. “He doesn’t help, Mom. At all. He said that it’s not traditional for him to do the big things… He hasn’t changed a single diaper. What’s the point…?”
“Claire…” I said softly, unsure of what I was going to say. “The baby won’t stop crying. I’m exhausted. I’m doing it all alone!” she wailed.
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