Page 86 of Insidious

She exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is right now.”

I could practically hear Lily rethinking her life choices.

“So, what exactly do you want from me?” she finally asked.

“Unquestioning, slightly unhinged support. A bit like Hannibal Lector. Wasn’t he a psychologist?” I shot back fiercely as I soothed Amelie. She rewarded me with a truly awesome burp and a smile.

“I am not eating human sweetbreads,” reasoned Lily.

“No … Yuck … No … But I expect you to help me bury bodies in my backyard if I need the support. And don’t even start,” I added, “because I distinctly remember a certain someone sobbing on my sofa at two in the morning when her ex dumped her yet again. I was the one who let the air out of all four of his tires while you stood guard.”

“That was different—”

“Was it?” I cut in sweetly. “Because I also remember us signing him up for every questionable subscription with his credit card. Let me see … Daddy Issues Digest … Fabulous Flesh Files … Boys After Hours. And we imagined them draining his bank account because they were locked in for a year.”

There was a pregnant pause.

Then, reluctantly, “That was … a moment of extreme emotional distress.”

“You fucked him after he cheated on you. And yet,” I said, satisfied, “that did not stop me from being on your side.”

Another pause.

“This sounds like blackmail to me,” she grumbled.

“And yet,” I said lightly, as I rocked my intelligent daughter who agreed with every word, “you benefited from my unwavering, morally questionable loyalty.”

Lily made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“So, what exactly do you want this time?” she asked.

“It’s simple,” I said. “I will only accept ride-or-die energy. Because today is a bad day, and my meds are not working as well because I tried to lower the dose, and I think I will need to go up again. Yes, yes … On the doctor’s advice. I am not stupid.”

Lily was silent for a minute. “You scared me, Luna.”

“You’re telling me. I scared myself. But I am better. I promise,” I had replied.

Isaac still goes to therapy, and he talks about it. He admitted one day that he still wakes up to check if both Amelie and I are breathing. He talks more freely about his feelings. And he tells me he loves me every day with a twinkle in his eye, like I have given him a gift when I grunt back.

It has become a thing. Before, his love language consisted of bear hugs and cuddles. But now, those are off-limits, except when he sneaks one when we are in bed.

I used to grumble that I always had to be the one to say I love him first. A week ago, he said it casually for the first time, like he was commenting on the weather.

“I love you.”

I was halfway through burping the baby, my hair scraped into a messy knot, one shoulder damp with puke I hadn’t noticed yet.

“Mhm,” I grunted, shifting her higher.

He took the muslin from beside me and dabbed at my shoulder.

But when I glanced up, there was this look. Like I had handed him something precious instead of a distracted noise.

After the first time, it kept happening.

In the kitchen, when I was standing in front of the fridge too long, trying to remember why I had opened it.