He blinked at me like he had expected nothing else.
***
Two days later, I signed discharge papers alone, listened to therapy instructions alone, and watched women leave the maternity ward with flowers, balloons, and husbands carrying bags.
I left with a sleeping baby, a folder thick enough to choke a printer, and a nurse named Carla walking beside me.
“You got somebody meeting you?” she asked.
I smiled so tightly it hurt. “Eventually.”
That was the lie I told strangers for about a year.
***
My apartment smelled like formula, baby powder, and lemon cleaner. I cleaned when I was scared, which meant I was always cleaning.
The hard years weren’t noble. They were expensive and exhausting.
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