Page 147 of Things We Burn

That was not the first or the last panic-stricken moment. I’d woken many times in alarm, thinking she was tangled in the duvet. I tried to nurse a pillow another night.

And this waswithmy mother and Mabel’s help.

I feared, truly feared, their exit.

When I communicated my panic to my mother, she hadn’t so much as blinked in shock at the way I was not only willingly sharing this but being open and vulnerable with her.

“Trust your motherly instincts; you know what’s best for her,” she said, lighting touching Mabel’s head.

My eyes snapped up at my mother and her well-meaning words spoken in a delicate tone. “My instincts?” I repeated in a harsh whisper so I wouldn’t wake her. Though when she was in my arms, a tornado running through the living room wouldn’t wake her. Carefully placing her in her bassinet was the only surefire way to jolt her awake.

“I don’thaveinstincts when it comes to babies.” I continued. “I have instincts when it comes to the correct time to take a blue cheese souffle out of the oven. When a Wagyu steak is perfectly rare. How long to sear scallops for.” I looked down at the little smattering of dark hair. “And I certainly don’t know what’s best for her. I just met her. These people are experts.” I tapped the nearest book. “These people have degrees and knowledge about babies. I know food, that’s it. I do not know how to do this.” My words were emphasized by a sob.

“Here’s the secret, sweetie.” My mother leaned forward to brush the tears from my face. “No one knows how to do this. We’re all just pretending, making decisions that we hope are right. Doing our best.” She looked outside, to where Kane was on the phone. “And you have the best man.”

I followed her gaze, unable to disagree with her.

But even with the best man, I felt like we’d fail.

Twenty-Three

“What are you doing?”

I startled at the rough voice, the question spoken in a whisper yet boomed through the quiet of the house.

Quiet. Such a simple concept. One so elusive those days.

I turned to find Kane in the kitchen, wearing only his boxers. Not for the first time—nor even the hundredth—I marveled at the washboard abs, the six pack that was the same if not more defined than when I first met him.

He was pure sculpted muscle.

I was … not.

Not that I’d spent hours in the gym in my prior life, but I was constantly on my feet, moving, lifting. I’d never been traditionally slim, but I was fit.

My body had regained somewhat of its previous shape thanks to breastfeeding and stress, yet I did not look the same. I was … less firmnow.

Once again, I thought about my body and whether it made me less attractive to Kane.

“Chef.”

I blinked up from where I’d gone into a dreamlike existential crisis while looking at Kane’s abs.

“What are you doing?” he repeated his question.

“I’m making chocolate mousse,” I said, even though it was kind of obvious. I’d just finished whipping the egg whites and was folding in the melted chocolate.

My mother hadn’t woken during this process, which I was thankful for.

“Chocolate mousse,” he echoed. “At three in the morning. When you’ve had exactly one hour of sleep, and Mabel is going to wake up in another forty-five minutes for more food.”

It didn’t surprise me that Kane had calculated exactly how much sleep I’d had. He made it his business to catalog everything about me. How much water I’d drank, how much food I’d consumed, whether or not I was doing the prescribed sitz baths.

His little blue book was not just about Mabel but about her postpartum mother. He’d transitioned seamlessly into a caretaker for both me and Mabel.

And though I loved watching that with Mabel, it set my teeth on edge for me.

“I need to sleep,” I agreed, continuing to fold. “Because my body, my cells, my blood, my brain all need sleep in order to function. But my soul, my insides need this.” I gestured to the bowl with the spoon. “Need something else, need a reminder of who I am other than a mother who constantly feels like she’s failing. And I feel like a failure for saying even this, that I need something else. But I need to feel like I was before. Like I know what I’m doing somewhere. Here, in the kitchen, I know what I’m doing. I feel in control. I need that.”

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