Chapter 10
Episode 10
The First Few Weeks At Home With Our Son
The weeks turned into a rhythm, a slow dance of feedings and naps and the soft creak of the rocking chair. I learned to read the tiny shifts in our son’s face—the furrow of his brow before a cry, the way his lips pursed in his sleep as if memorizing a secret. And I learned to read the partner, too, though he was less transparent. He still lingered at doorways, still held his breath when the baby slept too long, but the shadow behind his eyes had softened into something more like watchfulness.
One Thursday afternoon, the mail brought an envelope with my mother’s handwriting. I hadn’t told her about the birth until after—a cowardly text sent from the hospital bed, followed by a photo of our son’s wrinkled face. Her reply had been a single line: He’s beautiful. I’d like to meet him. I hadn’t responded. Now, holding the envelope, I felt the old weight settle in my chest—the weight of her disappointment, her judgment, her love that always came with conditions.
I opened it in the kitchen while the baby dozed in his bouncer. Inside was a card with a pastel illustration of a stork, and inside, in her careful cursive: I am proud of you. I know I don’t say it enough. I want to be part of this. Please let me. I read it three times, the words blurring on the third pass. A tear slipped down my cheek and landed on the card, smudging the ink of her signature.
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