There is a kind of exhaustion that only new mothers know.
It lives in your bones. It blurs the edges of everything around you. And it makes you vulnerable in ways that people who love you would never dream of exploiting.
My daughter Emma was nine days old when I made the drive to my parents’ house.
She was sleeping against my chest in her pale yellow blanket, her lips slightly parted, her small warm breath rising and falling like the most peaceful thing in the world.
I did not want to go.
I had learned over many years to trust the feeling in my stomach when it came to my family. And that morning, the feeling was loud.
My mother had called three times before noon. Her voice was warm and patient in that particular way it got when she had already decided something and was waiting for me to agree.
She said my father wanted to make peace.
She said a new baby changes everything.
She said family should not stay divided at a time like this.
I told myself she was right. I got in the car.
I should have turned around at the end of the driveway.
The front door was standing open when I arrived, which I should have noticed.
My sister Vanessa was waiting just inside the foyer, standing very still, watching the door.
She looked at Emma first. Then at me.
And before I had a chance to set down the bag on my shoulder, she stepped forward and lifted my daughter directly out of my arms.
Leave a Comment