Page 30 of A Sinful Gravity

"Super good!" she answered without hesitation, her little face radiating absolute certainty. "Sophie said I was an angel!"

At the door, Sophie smiled helplessly, nodded to me, and mouthed, "More or less."

I carried Laila into the living room and settled on the couch. She curled in my lap, grabbed her stuffed rabbit, and launched into the day's adventure story. Her little mouth moved up and down, voice rising and falling with what she considered appropriately dramatic plot points.

I listened, hand patting her back gently. The turbulence that "Washington" had stirred in my mind slowly settled in this familiar, warm chatter.

After tucking her in, I closed her door softly, made coffee, and sat in the living room.

Outside, London's night lights flickered—yellow dots distant and dense, beautiful and remote.

I remembered the first time I held Laila.

An autumn morning in London, sunlight streaming through the hospital window—rare and warm. She lay in the crook of my arm, so small, so wrinkled, soft, pale blonde fuzz on her head. Her tiny hands curled into fists by her face, breathing fine and even. Looking at her, the whole world went quiet.

I looked down at her and said my first words: "Hey there, little one. I'm your mom."

Then I cried. Sobbed until my face was a mess of tears and snot. The nurses thought it was postpartum hormones. Only I knew how much of those tears were joy, how much fear, how much terror of the unknown.

Six years ago, three days after arriving in London, I saw two lines on a pregnancy test in a corner drugstore bathroom.

My mind went blank.

I was pregnant. With Cassian's child.

What was I going to do?

That night, I sat alone on my flat's cold floor, leaning against a water jug, and thought all night. I remembered that rainy night, the smashed car, the unanswered calls. My mother's icy voice. "Go to hell."

I remembered all those days of careful pleading, all that ignored devotion, all those tears swallowed alone in the dark.

Then I touched my belly. Still flat, but I felt something there.

I made a decision.

I would have this baby.

Not because I still loved Cassian. Precisely because I didn't want anything more to do with him. This child was mine. The first wholly new life I could decide about completely on my own.

The months that followed still seem unbelievable.

The pregnancy was brutal. When morning sickness hit hardest, I'd hug the toilet bowl until I was dizzy, then wipe my mouth and head to the studio anyway.

Less than a month after having Laila, I was back in the studio. Amy practically jumped up and down, screaming I was insane, said I had a death wish, and physically forced me to go rest.

But I had no other options. No support, no savings. Dance was the only thing I knew how to do, the only thing I could hold onto. And I had a tiny, soft person depending entirely on me.

Laila was a good baby. Better than most, Sophie said—and she'd raised plenty of children. Sometimes I wished she'd fuss more, just so I'd know I wasn't alone in barely holding it together.

After she was born, I had no time to breathe. Days with her, nights after she slept, practicing in front of the living room mirror. Over and over until I was exhausted, until I could collapse into sleep—and sleeping meant not thinking.

A year later, an opportunity came. A retired ballet master happened to see footage of me in the studio. He was moved by my "tenacity" and recommended me to the Royal Ballet's second company.

From corps to soloist, soloist to principal—I clawed my way up every step. Toes blistered countless times, blood gluing shoes to my feet. Muscles pulled countless times, pain keeping me awake at night. Sometimes I'd come home too exhausted to even lift Laila, just lie beside her little bed watching her peaceful sleeping face, crying silently.

But it was all worth it.

Every time I stood on stage feeling applause meant for me, I knew it was worth it. Every time Laila ran to me laughing and calling "Mommy," I knew it was worth it.