I lay in my old twin bed that night with Evelyn in a borrowed bassinet beside me. My mom had found it in a neighbor’s garage that afternoon and scrubbed it in the bathtub. The stars glowed faintly green above me, the same stars I used to wish on when I was nine.
I didn’t wish on them now. I didn’t think I’d ever wish on anything again.
I cried all night. Not loud. I’d learned that in the hospital. I cried into my pillow so it wouldn’t wake her.
At three in the morning, Evelyn woke up hungry. I picked her up and sat in the old rocking chair by the window and fed her in the dark. The house was so quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs and a dog barking somewhere far away.
The door creaked open. My mom came in, in her bathrobe, and sat on the edge of the bed without turning on the light.
