Page 45 of Insidious

Isaac comes in with a nurse, and a small crib is placed beside my bed. But my attention is elsewhere.

I can only see her. And I start to cry.

There is this sudden, overwhelming mix inside me—guilt for what I did, happiness at seeing she is alright, embarrassment that everyone knows.

But Mum doesn’t hesitate. She immediately knows what I need.

She moves quickly, like she has been waiting for this moment, and gently places Amelie straight into my arms. I was half-afraid they wouldn’t let me hold her, and Mum sees that in my eyes.

All she says is, “Oh, love,” and she kisses my forehead after a quick hug before backing away.

My hands tremble as I hold Amelie, tracing her tiny fingers, her soft knuckles, the way her little feet kick restlessly against me. She has grown.

She looks up at me.

Her eyes are shaped just like Isaac’s.

She tracks me with those green orbs, curious and unblinking. And then she seems to remember my purpose in life and starts rooting. I lift my T-shirt, and she latches on, just the way I imagined it. That first pull is painful, and I wince, but it gets easier. I sit propped up, and all feels right. Not one moment since I came home from the hospital has felt like this one.

Mum smiles like this is exactly how she knew it would be.

Dad mutters something under his breath and gently ushers Mum towards the door, giving me space without making a fuss of it. Isaac pulls the chair close to the window in this cramped cubicle and just watches, giving me space, though I can feel him controlling his instinct to come closer.

He has been hovering all morning, never far away. After the doctor leaves, he gingerly pulled a chair next to the bed and reached for my hand.

“Is this okay?” he asks, not letting go until Lily comes in with a piping hot paper cup of tea. She chats on. I expected recriminations from both of them, but she only pulled me into a hug, and then leapt up with moist eyes to find a nurse to take my catheter out.

As I change sides and brace for Amilie to latch on, the conversation with Sandra after the morning rounds comes back to me.

She stayed after the doctor left and, with quiet authority, shooed everyone out. Then, she sat beside me on the bed like we were neighbours catching up over tea.

“You’re on a low dose of sertraline. It’s an antidepressant,” she said, not flinching from telling me the facts. “It’s safe to breastfeed, though we’ll keep an eye on Amelie.”

I nodded, still unsure, still trying to process everything that had happened.

“You need to take it. The medication will help you. And in all fairness, you may find you come off it in a few months,” she added. “Do whatever it takes to feel better. And if breastfeeding is stressing you out,” she continued, folding her arms, watching me carefully, “then maybe think about stopping.”

That made me look up. No one had ever said that to me.

“No one has the right to judge you,” she said firmly, reading me correctly. “Feeding your baby is not a competition. It should be about bonding, not breaking yourself to meet everyone’s expectations.”

Then, she leaned back slightly, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

“I’ve got two kids, you know,” she said. “One’s a champion boxer. Went to the Olympics. The other’s a neurosurgeon.”

I nodded.

“Both bottle-fed,” she added without a hint of apology. “Had no milk. And I knew enough to tell my old hag of a mother-in-law to fuck off.”

My mouth hung open at the language, and she laughed.

That tight knot inside my chest loosened.

I started talking, then. I blabbered like a lunatic. About how I was still upset about Isaac’s ex holding my baby on the day she was born. About Isaac, who tends to keep quiet just to keep the peace with his mum. About Manon, who has no boundaries. And I spent a good half an hour saying petty nonsense about Chloe, who has slowly slithered into our lives ever since she moved back to the UK from France six months ago.

“I’ve never been depressed. But that bitch is enough to make me an alcoholic. Her little innocent butter won’t melt in my mouth act made me want to throw up more than I already was,” I said. “But this depression. I don’t understand how this … How I—”

There was a knock, and Dr Davis popped his head in.