I watched the vehicle disappear around the curve of the road, the red lights fading into the dark pine trees.
The sound of the car tires rolling down the concrete driveway as the house falls into a heavy silence.
Lila kicked her legs against the thin fabric of her sleeper at ten past three in the morning.
The nursery smelled of lavender wipes and damp carpet from where the diaper pail had leaked the week before.
I sat between the white crib and the cracked plastic bouncer seat, my back pressed against the drywall.
Ivy was quiet for the moment, her small thumb wedged into her cheek, but her sister was starting to wriggle.
I reached for the yellow paper feeding log on the floor beside me, the edges curled from the humidity of the Florida night.
It was a grid I had drawn on yellow legal paper to keep track of the ounces, the wet diapers, and the rare hours of sleep.
The column for Brandon’s name had been empty for six days, the square boxes blank and white.
