The second day was worse than the first.
The first day, I was in shock. The second day, the shock wore off, and what was underneath it was pain. Raw, ugly pain that sat on my chest like a stone.
I kept looking at my phone. Every time it buzzed, my heart jumped. It was always someone else. My cousin. My friend Rachel from work. The hospital’s billing department. Never Ben.
A lactation consultant came by and helped me with feeding. She was cheerful and brisk and talked a lot about latch angles, and halfway through she said, “Will Dad be helping with nighttime feeds once you’re home?”
I just stared at her.
She looked at my face, then at the empty chair, and her cheeks went pink.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“It’s okay,” I said. It wasn’t.
That afternoon, I got out of bed for the first time and walked very slowly to the bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was greasy. My face was puffy. There was a hospital bracelet on my wrist with my name on it and a matching one on Evelyn’s ankle. Mother and daughter. A set.
