Page 12 of Finding the Pieces

I don’t know how Bec handles this. She has to understand what’s going on since baseball is Aiden’s career and they’re dating. Good luck to her.

“I love you,” Dom says, trying to comfort me. “And that beautiful brain of yours. You’re too creative for the English language.”

“You’re only trying to make me feel better about this because if there was a loser to this game, it’d definitely be me.”

“Does that mean I’m…winning?” He points to his chest. “Oh right, I am,” he says smugly. “Speaking of Aiden, he got us tickets to one of the playoff home games. The guys are all in. I’m sure you’ll hear about it from Bec and the girls this week.”

I stiffen, my shoulders hike up toward my chin, and I try to focus on Luca as I rub my thumb over his temple and he plays with the bracelet dangling from my wrist.

I keep waiting for this part of parenting to get easier. I know it’s insane to think I should be with Luca all day, every day, but when I leave to do anything that isn’t necessary—like choosing to be social for the sake of being social—guilt claws at my spine, working its way from base to skull.

The stress only worsens while I’m separated from him. I don’t know how many times I’ve texted Dom, our family, our friends, or whoever was watching Luca while I wasn’t there to check in on him. No one shames me for it, always saying they understand and that I’m an attentive mom, just missing her son.

I do miss him when I’m away, but my calls are never about that. What forces me to pick up the phone is some horrible thought that I can’t turn off. Horrific images of the worst-case scenario—Luca getting hurt, graphic images of accidents happening, gut-clutching imaginary scenarios—flip through my mind like one of those old photo reels and I’m powerless to stop the track or turn away. Unable to stop it, unable to protect him.

Ineedto call and make sure that the situation I’m imagining isn’t really happening. It never is. I know it’s not real, but it feels fuckingreal.

What kind of mother am I if I can’t keep my baby safe?

The first therapist I saw after Luca was born dismissed me entirely. Invalidated everything I was saying. I know how it sounds. Of course, I can’t predict every possible dangerous outcome of a situation and prevent it. But shouldn’t I try?

If Dom sees the shift in my body language, he doesn’t comment on it. I wait to respond, trying to keep my voice even when I finally do.

“When?” I ask.

“Saturday night. My parents are free.”

Immediately, my blood is boiling.

“What do you mean, Dom?”

“Huh? Oh, I texted my parents when Aiden mentioned the date. Wanted to make sure someone was free to watch Luca.”

Fuck, why does that enrage me?

He’s assuming I’m okay leaving Luca, and went ahead and made plans? Of course, I want to support Aiden. It’s not every year his team makes it this far in post-season, but Dom didn’t even talk to me about it first. It’s not a question. It’s an assumption, and I’m not involved in any of the planning.

It throws me back…like everything is happeningto meand I have no say. No control.

Sometimes motherhood feels like one giantfuck you. Get pregnant, but don’t complain about how difficult it is mentally or physically. Deliver the baby, but heal quickly so you can be productive. Spend months growing a baby, but your body better bounce back to its previous size. Become a parent, but act like nothing changed even thougheverythingfucking changed.

“You should have asked me,” slips out, my tone sounding unbelievably hurt, even to my own ears.

It catches Dom’s attention immediately, and his brow furrows. That little wrinkle makes an appearance, but the sight of it isn’t enough to distract me from the building pressure and panic in my chest.

“What’s going on? You don’t want to go?”

“You should have asked me first, Dom. The last time we went to a game, my parents struggled to get Luca to take a bottle and he wouldn’t sleep. He was fussy and wanted to cluster feed when we got home because he refused the bottle. We were up half the night even though we got home after one in the morning. It was exhausting. Besides, our parents aren’t getting younger, we can’t ask them to watch him that late—”

“Ellie,” Dom says, interrupting my spiral, and my chest heaves with heavy breaths.

I didn’t notice Dom had knelt in front of me and Luca on the floor. His stare locks with mine and all I can see is pity in his eyes.

His sympathy makes me feel like shit. I’m tired of him acting like I’m crazy because I don’t want to leave Luca. Isn’t it a good thing that I want to spend as much time with him as I can? We won’t get these years back. I can’t miss a minute of it, and if anything happens to him, it’ll be my fault. I’ll never forgive myself.

“Ellie, look at me. Breathe, love. Slow it down for me.”

The moment his forehead touches mine, my eyes fall closed, feeling so fucking heavy. Tears spring to my eyes and I don’t fight to hold them in. There’s only so much fight left in me.

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