Pain.
Claire crushing my fingers.
Then one final push.
A cry.
Our daughter.
Lily.
Tiny.
Pink.
Blonde fuzz.
The nurse placed her on Claire’s chest.
I waited for the moment Claire had imagined for years.
Tears.
Laughter.
Joy.
Instead:
Stillness.
Claire stared at Lily.
Then Lily opened her eyes.
One green.
One hazel-brown.
Not dramatically different.
Enough.
Claire flinched.
Actually recoiled.
I leaned closer.
“Claire?”
She whispered:
“No.”
“What?”
Her breathing changed.
Fast.
She stared at Lily’s eyes.
Then:
“I know those eyes.”
I looked at the baby.
“Your eyes?”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I’ve seen them before.”
The nurse looked at me.
Concerned.
I asked:
“Where?”
Claire started crying.
Not happy crying.
Fear.
Confusion.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
That was the beginning.
The hospital staff evaluated her.
No immediate physical complication.
But emotionally, she withdrew.
She held Lily when asked.
Fed her.
Changed her.
Mechanically.
Like she was afraid of looking too long.
I kept asking:
“What do you remember?”
She kept saying:
“Nothing.”
Then:
“Pieces.”
“What pieces?”
“A road.”
“A boy.”
“Hospital lights.”
“Someone crying.”
She pressed her fingers to her forehead.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
I suggested postpartum anxiety.
Not dismissively.
Desperately.
She looked at me.
“This started before she was born.”
“What?”
“I’ve been dreaming for months.”
That was new.
“About what?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought I was losing my mind.”
That hurt.
Then I remembered Ethan.
The yoga instructor.
The easy laugh.
The secretive tone.
“Did you tell him?”
Silence.
