Clara stood by the wooden bassinet near the window, her shoulders hunched as she looked down at our sleeping son. She wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach, her fingers digging deep into the soft flannel of her blue robe. Her skin looked pale, almost translucent in the gray morning air.
“I cannot remember,” she whispered, her voice tight and dry.
“Remember what, Clara?” I asked, stepping away from the closet.
“If I took the morning pill.”
She did not look up when I stepped closer to her. Her eyes were dull, the dark circles under them looking like bruised shadows.
“We can check the bottle in the kitchen,” I said, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
“My head feels so heavy, Daniel. Like someone stuffed it with wet paper.”
“You just need sleep,” I said, though my own chest tightened at the sight of her. “The doctor said the transition would be hard.”
“This is not hard,” she said, her breath catching. “This is different.”
“Different how?”
She looked down at the baby, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line.
