“God, what am I supposed to do?” I whispered.
My education urged me toward compassion—to help heal and save the broken soul. But something else entirely bared itsteeth. That instinct didn’t care for fairness or redemption. It cared about protecting those most vulnerable.
I was no Jane Eyre, and morality, I’d learned, was a luxury afforded only to those untouched by desire, love, and family ties. My conscience was biased, and I was a mess because of it.
I would not walk away untouched, but this time I wouldn’t walk away regardless of the cost to me. My main concern was the safety of my daughter, and her main threat was my own father who vowed no child of mine would live and continue the family line.
Maybe I could lay it all out on the table and Lykos would help. After all, he was very protective and he’d kept her safe so far. It wouldn’t hurt to try. Right?
The thought settled into me with a steady certainty.
I padded into the bathroom, the cold floor grounding me with each step. I showered and moved robotically through my skincare routine, and when I returned to the bedroom, my eyes fell on my phone resting on the nightstand.
The screen was dark and I just stood there, staring at it, tempted by habit.
But I didn’t reach for it.
Instead, I slipped beneath the covers and lay flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. The darkness pressed all around me, conjuring the phantom echo of the videos I usually played at night.
And still, I didn’t reach for my phone.
Instead, I lay there in the quiet, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thoughts circling endlessly as sleep stayed just out of reach.
Six nights without my baby.
I lay on my back, staring at the dot on the ceiling. Sophie had gone to meet up with her cousin and I was grateful for it. I couldn’t handle her pity. Dealing with my own was tearing me apart.
The whole place was too quiet, but it was in no way peaceful. It made the sorrow in my soul and voices in my head all the louder. It made my ears ring and pushed against my ribs, making me painfully aware that I was forever changed. Empty.
My baby was no longer with me.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand and slid it open, searching through my videos. The dimly lit screen stayed on and low, rhythmic breathing filled the space.
It didn’t make me feel better, but still I closed my eyes as it played.
Inhale. Exhale.
I couldn’t turn it off. I needed to hear my baby breathe.
I closed my eyes, pretending she was here with me. Pretending that I could feel her warmth and weight on my chest.
Slowly, I felt myself drifting off. Pain was here, but so was she, comforting me like I used to comfort her. She loved to sleep on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.
Then a cry sounded off.
My eyes flew open and I jolted into a half-sitting position. My heart pounded, and I was already turning to get to her.
But she wasn’t here.
It was just my phone, playing my video.
“It’s okay,” I whispered into the empty room.
The crying stopped and soft breaths returned. In and out. In and out.
Last week, baby clothes, bottles, and blankets crowded every inch of this space. Sophie had cleared it all out, and I was grateful for it, but I ached to smell the blanket with my newborn’s scent on it.
I closed my eyes again, listening for my daughter. Waiting for that cry. The sign that she was alive.
