Page 30 of Sinful Bride

“All except the mouthy one.”

“I could never get Sofi to rest for longer than five, ten minutes at a time.” Mama slides a plate of cookie bars across the counter to me. “I made these for snacks. They taste like dessert, but they’re full of nutrients.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.” I finish filling up the bottle with fresh water and twist the cap back on before grabbing the plate. “I’m worried about her. She doesn’t seem to be recovering well.”

“Keep an eye on things. If next week comes and it’s worse, you may want to speak with a therapist. Postpartum depression is a very real thing.”

My stomach twists at the thought of Daphne suffering from anything at all. Hasn’t she been through enough?

But then I realize how my mother knows about these things, and the twisting tightens. “Did you have that?”

She hesitates. We try not to bring up her horrific marriage with Kostya as much as possible, but some things can’t stay repressed forever.

“I wouldn’t know with much certainty.” Mama sighs and grabs a towel to wipe down the counters with. “I was never given that much attention or care. But I would also say that my situation was much different than Daphne’s. My depression was caused by my life more than by hormones.”

It makes sense. I hate it, and I wish I could go back in time to be a bigger help to my struggling mother who basically raised us as if she wasn’t married at all.

But I can’t do that. The past is unchangeable.

I can only fix the future.

The cookie bars and water jug go on the coffee table, and I plop my exhausted ass onto the couch at Daphne’s feet. I’m so fucking tired.

I love my life, I love my woman, and I love my kid.

But I would also love eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Consecutively, too, if I can convince my daughter to make it through the night without screaming her head off.

I’m finally able to close my eyes and feel myself drifting off into dreamless sleep… when a phone buzzes on the floor.

Must be Daphne’s. Probably a text. Probably Melanie.

BZZT.

BZZT-BZZT.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT-BZZT.

Grimacing, I drape Daphne’s legs and feet over my lap and reach over her to snatch her phone from the floor.

No calls, all texts. And they keep coming in, one after another.

Who the fuck needs to message her so damn badly?

I pluck up the phone and wait for it to vibrate again. Not to read through her texts; I just want to see the name that pops up.

Todd Bloomington.

Huh.

That’s strange.

Daphne is on maternity leave. Her bosses shouldn’t be contacting her for another four weeks, at least. And definitely not like this.

I glance at Daphne. She doesn’t hear her phone go off, and only shifts in her sleep to get more comfortable. Probably for the best.

I unlock her phone. Hit the Messages button.

And instantly see red the moment I read the most recent message.

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