“She looks so incredibly fragile today, Daniel,” my mother said, her fingers smoothing down the cotton fabric.
“She is just recovering,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “The doctor said three months of rest is completely normal after a delivery like hers.”
My mother stopped folding and looked up, her hand rising to adjust the single strand of pearls at her throat.
“I only want what is best for our precious girl, Daniel,” she said, her voice dropping to a sweet, rhythmic whisper. “But some women simply do not possess the stamina for these early months.”
A sudden chill passed through me, despite the dry heat blowing from the floor vent. My mother had arrived every morning at seven since we brought the baby home, her presence filling every room until I felt like a visitor in my own house.
“Clara is stronger than you think,” I said.
“Of course she is, my darling,” my mother said, smiling as she placed the folded clothes into the wicker basket. “But a mother knows when another woman is reaching her limit, and Clara needs deep, undisturbed sleep if she is going to heal.”
She reached out and patted my arm, her hand warm and lingering, before she carried the basket toward the hallway.
At two in the afternoon, we were back in the kitchen, the autumn sun casting long, pale shadows across the linoleum floor. An unpaid medical bill for eighty-four dollars sat on the corner of the table, the blue ink of the outstanding balance facing upward.
Clara sat at the table, her pink baby journal open in front of her, though she had not written a single entry since Tuesday. Her hand hovered over the table, her fingers twitching slightly as she reached toward the white pill bottle.
Before Clara’s fingers could touch the plastic, my mother stepped forward from the stove, a tall glass of tap water already in her hand.
