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Better, I tell myself.

It's a lie.

Day one, after he leaves, I convince myself I’m fine.

The bakery opens at seven. I’m there at five, mixing the first batch of dough before the sun clears the horizon. My hands move through the familiar motions. Measure. Mix. Knead. The rhythm is soothing. Normal.

The hunger is there. A small hollow spot beneath my ribs. But it’s manageable. Ignorable. The baby just needed that one feeding. A jumpstart. Now we can coast for a while.

I eat breakfast. Two eggs, toast, an apple. The food sits heavy in my stomach but the hollow doesn’t fill. That’s fine. That’s normal. Regular hunger doesn’t disappear after one meal either.

By noon I’ve sold through half my inventory. The customers keep coming back, asking what I changed in the recipe. I smile. Tell them it’s the same as always. They don’t believe me but they buy three loaves instead of one.

When I lock up at six, I’m tired. The kind of tired that comes from a full day of work. Nothing more.

I eat dinner. Pasta with butter and cheese. Drink a full glass of water. Go to bed early.

The baby’s pulse beats steady against my palm. See? We’re fine.

Day two, my hands won’t stop shaking.

It starts small. A tremor when I’m measuring flour. I spill a quarter cup on the counter, have to scoop it back into the bag. No big deal. I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep well.

Except I did sleep. Eight solid hours. Woke up more exhausted than when I went to bed.

By mid-morning, the shaking is worse. I’m pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven when my grip falters. The tray tilts. Six rolls slide off and hit the floor with soft, defeated thuds.

I stare at them. At the waste. At my hands that won’t hold steady.

I throw the ruined rolls in the trash. Start another batch. But I have to stop twice to steady myself against the counter. The hollow beneath my ribs has grown. Spread. It’s in my chest now. My throat. A gnawing emptiness that makes my bones ache.

I eat lunch. A sandwich. An entire bag of chips. Three cookies. The food goes down but it doesn’t touch the hunger. Doesn’t even come close.

The baby’s pulse is faster today. Insistent. Like it’s trying to tell me something.

I ignore it.

Customers come and go. I smile. Make change. Bag their orders. Pretend my vision isn’t going fuzzy at the edges.

When I finally close at six, I lock the door and lean against it. Just for a minute. Just to catch my breath.

The minute stretches to five. Then ten.

I force myself to move. Clean up. Prep for tomorrow. Every step feels like walking through wet cement.

Dinner is soup from a can. I eat it standing at the stove, too tired to sit. It tastes like nothing. Like eating cardboard and hot water.

The baby does a slow roll. Not comfortable. Not settling. Searching.

“I know,” I whisper. “I know what you want. But I can’t. We have to learn to do this on our own.”

The pulse beats faster. Angry now.

I go to bed at eight. Lie in the dark. Try to sleep.

But the hunger won’t let me. It claws at my insides. Demanding. Desperate.

I press both hands to my stomach. “Please. Just give me a little more time.”