Page 35 of Sinful Bride

“ I, ah… It’s been…” I sigh. “It’s been challenging. And very painful.”

Dr. Bradshaw has nothing but warmth in her expression as she takes notes. Why do I feel so judged? Like I’m a failure? “I see. As far as her latching goes, how is that? Has she been able to form a secure attachment?”

“Not… No. Not consistently. Sometimes, she doesn’t latch at all.” That lump grows bigger. My mouth gets drier. “I hold her and do the rubbing thing the specialist taught me, and she’ll maybe latch on for a second or two and then just… screams. We’ll try again, she’ll get some again, and then the screaming.”

She hates me. My baby hates me.

Dr. Bradshaw nods and sets her clipboard aside. “I have some good news, and I have some… let’s not call it ‘bad news,’ more just something to be aware of and keep an eye on. Tatyanna is below the normal threshold in terms of weight when it comes to newborns. Now, there is some fluctuation that can occur in the first week or two. But with proper nutrition, she still should be in the fiftieth percentile range. And she isn’t.”

I’m a failure. I failed. I haven’t been a mother for more than a week and I’ve failed my baby.

“The good news is, this is easily remedied. I see no signs of any other causes other than the feeding challenges you shared, so this really is good news. My strong recommendation is—” She stops and looks at me. “I recommend,” she repeats in a much softer and gentler tone, “switching to formula. This way, you can track how much and when Tatyanna eats, and we can keep an eye on her progress together. For you, Daphne, I’d like for you to try using a pump to encourage milk production and flow. Don’t worry; the more you can pump and get your milk to come out, the sooner all this will clear up...”

Her explanation fades as I stare at Taty. She’s so sweet and peaceful, all bundled up and sleeping in her carrier.

Pasha can hold her. This plastic thing can hold her. Hell, the complete stranger with a stethoscope can hold her.

But I can’t. Not without making her scream and cry and fight to get away from me.

I can’t even feed my own baby.

I don’t really notice whatever else the doctor has to say. She leaves for a moment, returning with a plastic bag filled with baby formula, two bottles, a pack of nipples, and an instruction pamphlet.

They discuss something about a feeding schedule and tracker included in the bag. I struggle to focus on anything other than the can of formula my baby has to eat because I’m unable to provide for her.

On our way out, they hand me another bag of supplies. My fingers feel limp as I take it; my stomach twists when I see it’s a breast pump kit.

Because I can’t feed my baby myself.

Not like a real mother.

Not like a good mother.

More like my mother.

14

DAPHNE

I don’t remember much of the drive home. I think Pasha tries talking to me, but I’m a zombie. Unreachable.

I don’t want to cry. I’ve cried so fucking much since the day I gave birth. But I’m suffocating under this overwhelming pressure in my chest. Drowning in a sorrow I don’t know how to express.

So when we arrive home, I decide to channel all of it into determination.

I will get this figured out.

I will feed my baby.

I hear Asya ask Pasha how it went, but I don’t stick around to hear his answer. I leave them to discuss my failures while I carry the bag with the breast pump into the bedroom.

Whoever designed this thing at least made an effort to make it look less like something I’d find on a dairy farm and more like… I don’t know. Anything other than what it is, I guess. It’s this egg-shaped contraption that suctions securely onto my breast at my nipple.

But as soon as it does, pain surges through my breast. One good thing from this—I have to find something good—is the lack of baby gums gnawing at my sensitive nipple. It’s a duller, broader pain.

But it changes nothing.

I don’t know how long I sit there, trying to pump one breast and then the other, before I break. The containers are completely empty. My chest hurts from the effort.

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