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The door snaps behind me. Paula abandoned ship pretty quick, and silently, too. If these early reactions are anything to go by, Paula’s not suited for this kind of work.
I don’t want to disturb Violet. Yet I can’t help but reach out and touch her cheek. It’s just as soft as it looks. A pillow of perfection beneath my fingertips. She’s such a fragile little thing.
A pang hits my chest. It’s like this every time there’s a baby as part of my job. I can’t help but think about the one that I lost…
Alright, Olivia. Focus. No crying at work.
I withdraw my hand and step away from her crib. I hate that I’m still like this over something that happened all the way back in high school. That’s ancient history!
But when you get knocked up by the guy that was going to be your forever, and he dumps you the day after you miscarry your child?
It sticks with you.
Mom always said that choosing this profession would make that pain harder to let go of. I’m as stubborn now as I was then, though. I just had to take the regret and the feeling that something in me was broken, and transform it into more love. More hope. More determination.
Mama didn’t raise a quitter.
I step back to Violet’s crib. It’s not her fault that my past is riddled in scars that have only scabbed over, but never finished healing. As a little bubble blows between her lips and pops, I think that maybe there’s some healing in this. How can I feel anything other than healed when there’s something so pure right in front of my eyes?
Smiling sadly, I scoop her up. It’s asking for a disaster to disrupt a newborn baby from its sleep.
But I’m glad I do.
Her weight in my arms feels perfect. I fall in love. Just like that, in the space of a breath. Violet lets out a tiny little gurgle that steals my heart, and that’s it for me.
She must know it, because she cracks her eyelids open. I’m met with green eyes so brilliant that they take my breath away. If there was any doubt that she was Reese’s daughter, one look into those big, bright eyes would have put it all to bed.
“Hey there, little one. I’m Olivia. We’re gonna be best friends.”
She blinks. The motion is half-sleepy, half-curious, but one hundred percent perfect.
Then she promptly hiccups and emits a massive stream of chunky, milky-white spit up all over my blouse.
Rather than be disgusted with it, I laugh. Good thing I brought an extra shirt.
Work starts now.
15
OLIVIA
I don’t see Reese at all for the entire first day. Day two is much the same.
The morning of day three brings some conversation, but even then, it’s not more than two words in passing. I’m on my way upstairs to the nursery and he’s headed down from his bedroom when he grunts something that vaguely resembles a “good morning,” but he doesn’t slow or stop. He just keeps stomping down to the ground floor, then disappears around the bend.
In a way, I’m grateful for it. Seeing less of Reese means less opportunity for me to keep dwelling on my wildly inappropriate dreams. It means less opportunities for my mind to wander into places that it really shouldn’t be going.
In Violet’s room, I turn on instrumental music to a low volume. I’ve got her in her bassinet, a couple of rattling toys in bright colors to occupy her. Figuring out how to make the most of the sparse situation that is her nursery is going to be a task and a half.
I’m already making mental notes of things I’m going to buy. Nicer decor for her walls and plush rugs for her floors, for starters. Both are bare and cold without anything to brighten them up.
Then, some furniture. There’s just a repurposed crib box where her dirty clothes are being kept, and most of her clean onesies live in a mountain of fabric in her open closet, still sprouting plastic tags like they’re fresh off the rack.
As I'm busy on my phone, adding things from Amazon to a little wish list I’ve named “ViVi’s Goodies,” someone knocks on her nursery door. Before I can answer, it opens.
I’m expecting (or maybe hoping for?) Reese; instead, it’s Paula. She looks so out of place in here in her pantsuits and pencil skirts. I think she just lives in permanent business formal mode, with a permanent scowl like her upper lip smells bad.
“Oh, good morning, Paula.” I give her a smile that’s not returned.
