5. Ellie
Chapter five
Ellie
I press my palms to my eyes, willing the familiar ache to dissipate. That worn-out feeling from crying too hard for too long and the never-ending exhaustion from months of sleep deprivation.
Luca, my sweet almost-one-year-old, has been sleeping for forty-five minutes now. The nap he refused earlier today came too late and now bedtime will be way too late and another battle. My heart sinks and I feel desperate to just rest .
This built-up exhaustion is bone deep. Soul deep.
I can’t remember the last time I woke up on my own, without being startled out of a restless sleep by Luca’s cries.
Will it ever get better?
I lie in bed, trying to do as they say and sleep when the baby sleeps . What a load of shit. The times I do fall asleep, he wakes up shortly after I finally close my eyes, and when I don’t, he sleeps like a dream.
When am I supposed to work? When am I supposed to clean? When am I supposed to take care of myself? When am I supposed to have a relationship with my husband? When am I supposed to catch up with friends and family?
It would take a two-week-long nap to recover from this never-ending fatigue .
I keep thinking I can strategize my way to more sleep. If Luca has a good night, I find myself trying to recreate every single detail of the routine only for it to fail miserably the next night, with him fighting sleep and then waking multiple times throughout the night.
If one more person tells me I need to try sleep training, I might fucking lose it. I have no judgment against the method or parents who decide to use it, but I had a panic attack fifteen minutes into our first and only attempt at doing so before I ran into his room and cradled a screaming Luca in my arms, swearing off Dom from ever bringing it up again.
My nervous system can’t take it. It’s simply not an option.
Soft steps sound on the carpeted stairs. I hold my breath, my head snapping toward the baby monitor. Luca doesn’t seem to hear the steps like I do—or maybe he doesn’t mind—because he doesn’t stir.
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep before I hear Dom enter our room, home from work. His slow steps approach my side of the bed, pausing as he lingers for a moment before his steps begin again, retreating from our room, the sound of the monitor fading as he leaves, taking it with him.
Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I feel them stream down my face and into my hair as I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.
I can’t talk to him. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. I don’t even recognize myself.
***
I finally fall asleep, waking to the sound of Luca’s cries from his room down the hall. My head is foggy as I roll to my side, my slow steps dragging as I make my way to his room.
Dom beats me there. He already has Luca in his arms, patting his back, hushing, and speaking softly in his ear.
The sleep routine is an ever-changing puzzle, and lately Luca’s been waking up from his afternoon nap inconsolable and it takes a solid five minutes to calm him .
“Go rest, babe. I got him.” Dom smiles as he sways and rocks our sweet boy in his arms.
I nod numbly, wrapping myself in my arms, and return to our bedroom with unsure steps. I sink to our mattress, holding my middle like I’ll split into two if I don’t.
When I’m not the one taking care of Luca, I feel like I should intervene. Like no one can take care of him like I can. It’s not rational, especially when the person holding him is my partner and Luca’s very capable and loving father. But the thought still rattles around my head, untamed and uncontrollable.
When I’m in the thick of parenthood—endless dirty diapers, crying, fussing, meals, bathtime, cleaning, and near-constant redirecting of a toddler on the move—I desperately want a break. For someone to take over so I can get a minute to myself. A minute alone. A minute of peace. But when I finally get that moment, every part of me abhors it.
It’s my job. My responsibility. Luca needs me to be better at this, and I’m failing him.
I wish I was the type of mom I always imagined I’d be. Patient and easygoing, who laughs all the time with a natural maternal instinct. Who isn’t a mess of nerves and self-doubt.
I never expected to feel like I have to rediscover who I am after becoming a mother. It’s as if the day he was born, my old self disappeared—the person left standing having no idea who she is.
Mom is a title I’ve always wanted, but I don’t know how to fit into the role I dreamed of playing. The shoes I bought don’t fit, and the unease I walk with leaves me blistered and hurting.
I change into a pair of leggings and one of Dom’s old hoodies—basically, my postpartum uniform at this point. My pre-pregnancy sweaters still hug tightly across my stomach and they’re not as comfortable as Dom’s looser-fitting ones, so I opt for his most days.
Downstairs, I find Dom on the floor playing with a now calm and happy Luca .
I quickly scan the living room, making a mental list of everything I need to do. I notice several of the plants, both in here and the attached kitchen, are starting to wilt and make a mental note to water them later. The diaper stash I keep in the living room is running low; I’ll need to grab more from the store this weekend. And that shirt is looking a little small on Luca; I need to go through his clothes again and size up. Another growth spurt already?
Dom is seated with his back resting against the side of our large sectional sofa that takes up most of the far wall of our living room across from the fireplace.
When we moved in, I chose vibrant, bold paint colors for the shared living spaces, and even today, feeling both exhausted and run down, the pops of color help brighten my mood. Our kitchen walls are warm, sunny yellow and the cabinets are teal. The backsplash tiles are large and patterned, each different yet cohesive. Our living room is painted an almost emerald green and our large sectional sofa is royal blue. The rust curtains and pillows pull it together.
My husband gives me a once-over, taking in my outfit, and his lips curl.
“I like that one on you,” he says, nodding at my stolen sweatshirt.
“I think it’s as old as our relationship,” I say with a laugh as Luca crawls over to me as fast as he can, focused and grunting, until he reaches my ankles. I pick him up, holding him close and kissing his head, breathing him in.
My milk lets down.
Hot, right?
I plop onto the couch, placing a firm pillow underneath Luca, kissing his light brown hair—just as messy as his dad’s darker hair—before getting us both comfortable. He doesn’t nurse nearly as often now as he used to, but I’m not rushing the weaning process.
I don’t miss the way Dom’s gaze lingers on my chest before Luca latches. Dom coughs into his fist, strokes his beard, which is longer than normal and in need of a trim, and starts picking up Luca’s toys scattered throughout the living room.
I hide my smirk and focus on Luca. The ladies have been through it after a year of breastfeeding, but that doesn’t seem to stop Dom from appreciating them.
At least some things haven’t changed .
“Older, actually. Pretty sure I got that one during orientation my freshman year,” he says.
“Jesus, what’d they make this thing with?” The letters spelling out University of Columbus might be cracked and faded, but the fabric has that perfect softness that can only be achieved after years of wash and wear. Three things that only get better with time—sweatshirts, sweatpants, and Dom’s laugh, which he shares with me now.
“With how much they charged us for tuition, it better last me the rest of my life.”
“I think you mean me .” I smile at him.
He straightens, leveling me with a serious look. His face turning serious, he practically growls at me. “No. Don’t even think about it. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’m sorry, babe. It’s the natural life cycle of old hoodies. There’s no use fighting it. Eventually, they all make their way to my side of the closet. You can say hi when I wear it.”
He gives me an appraising look, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. Only Dominic Moretti would ogle me in sweats, my hair a mess, one giant nursing nipple out in the wind, not to mention the permanent dark circles under my eyes from almost a year of the shittiest sleep imaginable.
“It’s yours, Ellie…like everything else,” he says, making his way to me. His eyes lock with mine as he brushes the flyaway hairs away from my forehead before placing a soft kiss there as well.
“Looks better on you anyway. Thanks for taking care of our boy, Mama.”
Then he winks, and my stomach does the thing. That little flop, my heartbeat kicking in the base of my throat. That heat rising to my cheeks because he is looking at me like that .
Seven years together and he still looks at me like that .
A flicker of heat rekindles long enough for me to appreciate him appreciating me. But when I imagine taking things further later on tonight when we finally get a rare minute to ourselves, my gut wrenches.
No, not tonight .
The three of us settle into a comfortable silence, Dom tidying up while Luca finishes nursing. When I put him back down to play, he crawls as fast as his little body will take him to the bin of toys Dom just put away.
He rolls his eyes, before falling onto the couch next to me. Before, we would have snuggled up together, hands interlocked, me leaning into the space between his arm and side, head curled up against his chest.
The silence is screaming. Things are so different between us now. It’s evident in every moment of our day. I see it—I feel it—all day long. Does he feel it too?
“I’m going to close my eyes and pretend our son isn’t about to trash this room for the fifteenth time today,” Dom says.
“I want to tell you it’s going to get better, but with his birthday coming up, our friends and family will inevitably buy him gifts with ten thousand pieces. It’s going to get so much worse.”
“Fuck, you’re right,” he says, swiping a palm over his face on a deep exhale.
“We could ask that everyone skips the gifts,” I suggest passively.
He looks at me, eyes wide with disbelief as he whispers in horror, “But it’s his birthday .”
I giggle at his mortification. “He’s one . He’s not going to care.”
“ I care. I’ll tidy up the new toys.”
“Will you still complain?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at him, knowing the answer.
“I reserve the right, but that doesn’t change my answer.”
I smile to myself, loving that Dom wants to see his son spoiled, knowing he’s the kind of man who never cares about getting gifts himself. Dom has always been generous, always thinking of others and how he can support them. How he can show his love. The biggest heart I’ve ever felt. The sweetest one I’ve ever known.
“We’ll need a bigger toy basket,” I say. “Or a small shelf or something for the living room.”
“Consider it done. ”
Dom flips the TV on, changing the channel to Aiden’s baseball game. The Columbus Aviators did well this season, earning them a spot in the playoffs. I move to sit on the floor, joining Luca while he plays.
“So, what seat are the Aviators in?” I ask, my focus split as I show Luca how to use the mallet on his toy xylophone.
“Say that again?” Dom asks.
“What seat are they in?” I repeat, nodding toward the game playing on TV. He gives me a look, and I tilt my head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He stands abruptly, then jogs into the kitchen. When he starts fumbling and digging through our junk drawer, I gasp.
“What are you doing?” I call out to him from my spot on the living room floor.
“Getting the notebook,” he yells back, shooting a shit-eating grin my way before returning to his search. We need to clean out the junk drawer. It’s bad, even by my standards.
“It better be for you,” I say with conviction, crossing my arms over my chest and lifting my chin. “Sure as hell isn’t for me.”
He strides back into the living room, notebook jostling in his hand as he asks, “Ellie, what are baseball rankings called?”
“Umm…seats,” I say with little-to-no confidence. Shit. He definitely got the notebook for me.
The notebook is almost as old as the sweater I’m wearing. Back when we first started dating, we were at dinner when Dom confused the saying it’s a dog-eat-dog world and instead he said doggy-dog-world . I laughed so hard I snorted wine out of my nose.
Not even a week later, I may have accidentally said nip it in the butt instead of nip it in the bud. Before he could control his laughter, he was digging in my school tote, stealing one of my notebooks. He dated the first clean page, claiming the notebook was being repurposed so that we could document which one of us was more confused about sayings we should most definitely know by now .
The edges are worn and the inside cover has been divided into two columns, marked up with sloppy tally marks to track which one of us is “losing.” Well, losing worse . There’s no winner here. This happens way more than it should.
“I fucking knew it. God, I love you, Ellie. It’s seed. What seed are the Aviators,” he says, flipping to the front cover to give me another tally before writing down my slipup with today’s date.
You’d think this couldn’t happen often enough to warrant a notebook, but we’re going to need a new one soon with just a few pages left to spare. Those first ten pages of Biology 101 notes are still there, even if a little faded.
“ Seed ? Why the fuck is it a seed?” I retort.
“Close your ears, Luca. Mommy’s about to cuss up a storm,” Dom says with glee.
I cover Luca’s ears with my palms and he smiles up at me, a big, lopsided, toothy grin showing off his four adorable baby teeth. I smile back at him, my heart trying to burst free from my chest from how adorable he is.
“Yes, mommy is,” I say with an exaggerated smile, which I keep on my face as I turn toward Dom. “Proof, Daddy. I want proof.”
“Ooo, Daddy ? I think I like it, Ellie. Say it again,” he taunts.
“Ugh, you’re impossible.” I move my hands from Luca’s ears to his belly, giving him a little squeeze before pulling out my phone to do a quick search.
“Goddammit,” I mumble, the internet confirming Dom’s not lying. “Well, they should change that. Sitting in a seat makes more sense.”
“No, babe…” Dom says, trying, and failing, to keep from laughing at me. “They aren’t sitting in a seed. They just…are.”
“So, they become a seed ? I’m supposed to ask what seed they are?” Dom covers his mouth with his hand, crossing his other across his chest and nodding. “Sports are so fucking weird.”
I don’t know how Bec handles this. She has to understand what’s going on since baseball is Aiden’s career and they’re dating. Good luck to her.
“I love you,” Dom says, trying to comfort me. “And that beautiful brain of yours. You’re too creative for the English language. ”
“You’re only trying to make me feel better about this because if there was a loser to this game, it’d definitely be me.”
“Does that mean I’m…winning?” He points to his chest. “Oh right, I am,” he says smugly. “Speaking of Aiden, he got us tickets to one of the playoff home games. The guys are all in. I’m sure you’ll hear about it from Bec and the girls this week.”
I stiffen, my shoulders hike up toward my chin, and I try to focus on Luca as I rub my thumb over his temple and he plays with the bracelet dangling from my wrist.
I keep waiting for this part of parenting to get easier. I know it’s insane to think I should be with Luca all day, every day, but when I leave to do anything that isn’t necessary—like choosing to be social for the sake of being social—guilt claws at my spine, working its way from base to skull.
The stress only worsens while I’m separated from him. I don’t know how many times I’ve texted Dom, our family, our friends, or whoever was watching Luca while I wasn’t there to check in on him. No one shames me for it, always saying they understand and that I’m an attentive mom, just missing her son.
I do miss him when I’m away, but my calls are never about that. What forces me to pick up the phone is some horrible thought that I can’t turn off. Horrific images of the worst-case scenario—Luca getting hurt, graphic images of accidents happening, gut-clutching imaginary scenarios—flip through my mind like one of those old photo reels and I’m powerless to stop the track or turn away. Unable to stop it, unable to protect him.
I need to call and make sure that the situation I’m imagining isn’t really happening. It never is. I know it’s not real, but it feels fucking real .
What kind of mother am I if I can’t keep my baby safe?
The first therapist I saw after Luca was born dismissed me entirely. Invalidated everything I was saying. I know how it sounds. Of course, I can’t predict every possible dangerous outcome of a situation and prevent it. But shouldn’t I try?
If Dom sees the shift in my body language, he doesn’t comment on it. I wait to respond, trying to keep my voice even when I finally do .
“When?” I ask.
“Saturday night. My parents are free.”
Immediately, my blood is boiling.
“What do you mean, Dom?”
“Huh? Oh, I texted my parents when Aiden mentioned the date. Wanted to make sure someone was free to watch Luca.”
Fuck, why does that enrage me?
He’s assuming I’m okay leaving Luca, and went ahead and made plans? Of course, I want to support Aiden. It’s not every year his team makes it this far in post-season, but Dom didn’t even talk to me about it first. It’s not a question. It’s an assumption, and I’m not involved in any of the planning.
It throws me back…like everything is happening to me and I have no say. No control.
Sometimes motherhood feels like one giant fuck you . Get pregnant, but don’t complain about how difficult it is mentally or physically. Deliver the baby, but heal quickly so you can be productive. Spend months growing a baby, but your body better bounce back to its previous size. Become a parent, but act like nothing changed even though everything fucking changed.
“You should have asked me,” slips out, my tone sounding unbelievably hurt, even to my own ears.
It catches Dom’s attention immediately, and his brow furrows. That little wrinkle makes an appearance, but the sight of it isn’t enough to distract me from the building pressure and panic in my chest.
“What’s going on? You don’t want to go?”
“You should have asked me first, Dom. The last time we went to a game, my parents struggled to get Luca to take a bottle and he wouldn’t sleep. He was fussy and wanted to cluster feed when we got home because he refused the bottle. We were up half the night even though we got home after one in the morning. It was exhausting. Besides, our parents aren’t getting younger, we can’t ask them to watch him that late—”
“Ellie,” Dom says, interrupting my spiral, and my chest heaves with heavy breaths .
I didn’t notice Dom had knelt in front of me and Luca on the floor. His stare locks with mine and all I can see is pity in his eyes.
His sympathy makes me feel like shit. I’m tired of him acting like I’m crazy because I don’t want to leave Luca. Isn’t it a good thing that I want to spend as much time with him as I can? We won’t get these years back. I can’t miss a minute of it, and if anything happens to him, it’ll be my fault. I’ll never forgive myself.
“Ellie, look at me. Breathe, love. Slow it down for me.”
The moment his forehead touches mine, my eyes fall closed, feeling so fucking heavy. Tears spring to my eyes and I don’t fight to hold them in. There’s only so much fight left in me.
“Nothing is decided. We were invited, and I asked our family if they were free to watch Luca to see what our options are. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
“Okay.” I scoff, pulling back and wiping my cheeks dry. “So I can be the bitch who misses the game when everyone else is going? So I can be the big buzzkill? When you tell your parents I want to cancel, they’ll question why and you’ll tell them it’s because I can’t handle leaving Luca? Why do I always have to be the one to hold all the worry? I can’t carry it alone.”
Anger feels good. Anger feels better than falling apart.
Shitty thing about it is that Dom is the one it always seems to be directed at, and a guy can only take so much. He doesn’t deserve any of it, but I can’t seem to stop.
I watch him bristle, and he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me.
“Jesus, Ellie, how did we get here? We were having a great night,” Dom asks, shoving his hand through his hair, ruffling the longer sections so they lay unevenly. Good, now we can both look frazzled.
Why does the rest of the world get to keep spinning while I’m fucking drowning?
Does he not see me? Does nobody see me?
“We got here because you forgot that I can’t just go and do things like this. You just keep pushing, and pushing. One day, I’m going to fucking snap. You want to fix me. You want me to be the person I was before all of this, but I’m never going to be that person again, Dom,” I yell, breaking my own rule against arguing in front of Luca.
I’m not in control. I need to get out of here.
“Ellie, I’m not trying to fix you. I’m just trying to help you. I’m trying to love you. You’re not fucking broken ,” Dom snaps at me, throwing a teether into the toy bin with more force than necessary, finally letting his frustration breach the surface. A rare occurrence for Dom.
“Yes,” I whisper, silent tears falling. “I am.”
His face falls, heartbroken and so…so lost. I can’t look at him for one more second knowing I’m the cause of that pain.
Things may not be easy between me and Dom right now, not like they used to be, but this is where I draw the line. We don’t speak to each other like this in front of Luca.
This whole conversation started out so easy. How did it devolve into this ?
I storm out of the room before I say more that I’ll regret. Guilt sinks like a brick in my stomach. Tears burn my eyes before they fall. I’ve failed as a mom and a wife…again.