Chapter Fifteen
Brooke
I’m not gonna bore you with the details or horrify you, depending on how you look at it.
All I’ll say is this: I honestly, positively, did not know it was possible for a human body to hurt this much.
It’s not even one kind of pain. It’s not steady or predictable.
It’s like someone’s torturing you through your vagina and slowly turning the dial just to see how much you can take.
At first, they give you this false sense of control.
The contractions hurt, sure, but they’re manageable.
Everyone says, just breathe through them, and for a while, you think maybe you actually can.
But there’s only so many times you can be stabbed in the same spot before you start screaming. And boy, did I scream.
I screamed my fucking head off.
The doctor looked vaguely annoyed, which, fair, I probably shattered a few eardrums, but the nurse just smiled and said, “He’s not the one having a baby. Scream away.” So, I did. I screamed when I pushed. I screamed when the baby crowned. I screamed when I tore, second-degree, by the way.
I thought the pushing would be the worst part, but it wasn’t. It was the burning. It was the tearing. It was the way my body felt like it was splitting apart and still being told to keep going.
And when it was over, when they placed that tiny, slippery, screaming human on my chest, I cried too, from exhaustion, from shock, from relief that it was finally done.
But it wasn’t really done. Because I lost a lot of blood, more than they expected and they kept me in the hospital for three days.
Three days of stitches and IV fluids and blood pressure checks.
Three days of nurses waking me up every few hours to press on my stomach, which, by the way, feels like being punched in an open wound.
Three days of staring at the little person in the bassinet next to my bed, my body wrecked and raw and stitched back together, and thinking: I did this. She’s here. She’s real.
And even through the pain, even through the haze of it all, I know I’d scream every second again if it meant bringing her into the world.
“Alright. Here we are.”
Matthew pushes open the front door with his elbow, hands laden with a carrier and my bags. Our modest two-bedroom apartment is still the same with its peeling paint and squeaky hinges.
I take a deep breath. After three days in the hospital, I thought I’d never see this place again. Home. Familiar. But nothing feels the same now. We’re not just newlyweds anymore. We’re parents.
Matthew sets the baby carrier down carefully in front of the sofa. He glances at me, eyes soft. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll make us some food.”
I nod, dragging myself toward the sofa. Every step makes my body ache. Weren’t you supposed to stop walking like a turtle after the baby came out? If anything, I’m slower, an old turtle, hunched and praying nothing tears.
Lowering myself onto the cushions feels like an Olympic event. The second I sit, I exhale. Either someone cleaned the amniotic fluid from the cushions or it dried out. Eww.
My stomach feels alien now, soft and hollow where it used to be round and taut.
The baby squeaks from the carrier. Not a cry, just a squeak. My whole chest tightens, tethered to her by something invisible but unbreakable.
Matthew rushes to check on her, crouching he fiddles with the buckles. He looks terrified, but proud. He keeps glancing at me like I should be giving him instructions.
“She’s okay.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Will you get me something to drink?”
He hurries into the kitchen, banging pans around.
Sweet, I suppose. But useless. What I want isn’t a drink.
What I want is… I don’t even know. Sleep, silence.
Maybe to close my eyes and wake up on a flight again, somewhere over the Atlantic, laughing with the other girls.
That version of me feels like a ghost now.
I glance at Penny. Still sleeping, cheeks pink, fists curled. Perfect. Untouchable. Mine.
I wonder if this is what all women feel, deathly afraid yet happy. Scared shitless, but would never give her back. I smile at her sleeping face, grimacing at a twinge in a place that shouldn’t twinge.
Normal delivery my ass. I lost more than half my blood volume, hooked to more IVs than I had veins. One thing’s for sure, I will never allow another man to be my OB-GYN. Telling a bloody, broken woman “it’s normal” isn’t normal. Dr. Asshole is lucky I was too sore to put my foot up his ass.
“What’s wrong?” Matthew asks, slipping in next to me on the sofa and handing me a glass of juice.
I look at the red liquid, wishing it were wine. But we both know it’s pomegranate juice. I take a sip and hmm its actually good.
I say. “I was just… thinking. I have an actual human being depending on me. Me.”
He laughs. “And what’s it like being a single parent?”
I smile at his teasing tone. “You know what I mean. Especially since you’re going back to work Monday.”
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. There’s an emergency.”
I mutter, “There’s gotta be a rule about only a week of paternity leave.”
“Drop it, okay?” he snaps.
I raise an eyebrow, my lips parting in surprise. He sighs immediately, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just… stressed.” Then his face brightens suddenly, too forced. “Besides, my mom said she’ll come around to help you.”
“That’s nice,” I say out loud.
What I’m really thinking: The woman who once called me ‘temporary’ is coming to help me? The sky must be falling.
I still don’t understand what her problem is. The girls from group said it’s normal, that mothers, especially mothers of sons, have a hard time adjusting to not being the only woman in their boy’s life. But come on, it’s been months. And besides, we have a daughter now.
To be fair, she’s been… better. She came to the hospital on the second day. I’d been about to start feeding Penny, and she was actually respectful. She gently ran a hand over her granddaughter’s tiny head, asked if I was alright, and then left to give me space.
Maybe Zara was right. I’m not just “the woman with her son” anymore. I’m the mother of her grandchild. That changes things. It has to.
I clear my throat. “My sister said she’d come by…”
Matthew shakes his head. “Why bother her? She’s got her own family. Besides, my mom already said she’s on it.”
I nod slowly. “Great.”
Inside, it doesn’t feel great. It feels like the walls closing in, like I’m being handed over. My sister would’ve understood the unwashed hair, she would’ve allowed me to break down. But instead, I’m getting his mother. Mrs. Perfect-At-Everything. Mrs. I did it all alone.
Penny lets out a wail. Gone is the peaceful little angel; in her place is a red-faced, furious banshee.
Matthew practically leaps off the sofa. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He fumbles with the buckles, unclips her, and scoops her up.
I gesture toward him. “Hand her over.”
He shakes his head, bouncing awkwardly. “I got it.”
“Unless you’ve got milk in your chest, you don’t,” I deadpan, tugging open the buttons of my shirt and peeling down the cup of my bra.
Hesitant, he finally hands her over. I guide her tiny mouth, help her latch. The relief is almost instant, the squalling softens to greedy sucking.
He keeps standing there, watching us. “You’re so good at that.”
“I think it’s more biology than talent,” I say dryly.
He shakes his head. “No, seriously. How’d you know she was hungry?”
“The nurse said from now on, whenever she cries, it’s either hunger or a diaper.”
“And how’d you know it wasn’t the diaper?”
I shrug. “It didn’t look heavy.”
He looks wounded by that, like he’s already failing some invisible test. I free a hand and grab his. “Hey. You’ll get it.”
He nods, squeezing my fingers, then clears his throat. “I’m gonna get started on dinner. My mom dropped off a lasagna; I’ll heat it up.”
I grimace. “Her beef-and-cheese one?”
He winces, realization dawning. “Shit. Beef.”
“Can you just make me an omelette?”
“Of course.” He nods quickly and heads toward the kitchen.
See, this is the shit that bothers me. She’s helpful, but in this weirdly unhelpful way, like she doesn’t actually see me.
Take my birthday. I wasn’t expecting a gift, but Chloe showed up with one anyway: a fancy Italian espresso machine.
Gorgeous, expensive. And useless. I was pregnant.
I’m not even the coffee person in this marriage, Matthew is.
But if I point that out, suddenly I’m the ungrateful daughter-in-law. So, I smiled, and said thanks.
If she wants to spend her money to get us expensive shit, even ones I can’t use, I won’t say no.
Still, I decide to give her grace, just this once. It’s not like she can make my life worse.
Matthew
My phone buzzes just as I slide the omelette off the pan. I ignore it, grab the plate and utensils, and head to the sofa. Brooke’s already finished feeding.
I hover there awkwardly for a second, plate in hand, not sure where to fit myself in.
She looks up and gives me that smile, the same one I fell in love with years ago.
I set the plate on the table and carefully lift Penny from her arms. She’s warm, impossibly small.
I bounce her gently while Brooke buttons up her shirt.
“Could you… remember after feeds, tap her back?” she says.
I nod quickly. “Of course. Here, I’m bouncing her so the food comes back up.”
She smiles at me indulgently, like I’m a kid playing house. “It’s okay, it’s my first time raising a baby too.”
I let out a self-depreciating laugh. “Yeah, but you still got it.” The words taste bitter. I shake my head. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear about my incompetence.”
Brooke shifts the plate onto her lap and looks at me carefully. “Is everything okay?”
For a second, I almost tell her. I almost let the worry spill out. But then I swallow it back down. Not now.
“I’m just…” I hesitate, then shake my head. “I shouldn’t have skipped all those baby classes, I guess.”
Brooke doesn’t say anything right away, just keeps watching me, like she knows there’s more I’m not admitting. I clear my throat and nod toward her plate. “Eat that before it gets cold.”
She finally nods and turns her attention to the omelette. I keep gently patting Penny’s back the way the nurse showed us until, miraculously, she lets out a burp louder than her tiny body should be capable of.
I cradle her back into my arms, her curious eyes wide and locked on my face. My chest tightens. In a soft, exaggerated voice I say, “Do you know who I am? I’m Daddy.”
She just stares at me, solemn, like the serious old soul she is. “Right,” I mutter.
On cue, she lets out a wail.
“What’s wrong? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, rocking her in awkward little bounces. My feeble attempts do nothing, her cries only sharpen.
“Maybe she needs her diaper changed,” Brooke offers gently.
I freeze, then laugh too high, too thin. “Of course. You literally just told me.” I stand there, useless, Penny still howling in my arms.
“Do you need me to-?” Brooke starts.
I shake my head. “No, I got it.” I move to set Penny down on the sofa cushion, then hesitate. Changing a dirty diaper two inches away from my wife eating, doesn’t seem like a great plan. “I’ll, uh… take her to the nursery,” I say instead, and hurry down the hall.
I push open the nursery door and lay Penny on the changing table. Honestly, I’m pretty sure this was a closet before the landlord slapped on a ‘second bedroom’ label on it.
I shake my head. Brooke deserves a house.
Penny deserves a house. When I asked her to marry me, I promised I’d give her the best life.
And look at us now, crammed into an apartment with peeling walls and no elevator.
Watching Brooke wince her way up three flights of stairs after the hospital made me feel like the biggest incompetent fool alive.
I force the thought down and focus on Penny. Diaper off, wipe front to back, at least I remember that rule. She doesn’t cry, just watches me.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, fastening the fresh diaper. “Your dad’s not very good at this. But I promise, I’ll never stop trying. Okay? Okay.”
Her sleepy eyes flutter as if she believes me. I scoop her up, press my cheek to her soft head, then lay her gently in the crib. I rub her tiny belly until she drifts toward sleep.
Finally, I pull out my phone. A notification waits on the lock screen. It’s from Trudy, my assistant.
Call me. 911.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and step quietly into the living room.
Brooke’s curled up on the sofa, the half-empty plate still on the table in front of her.
Her chest rises and falls, mouth parted slightly in sleep.
She looks so small, so fragile, nothing like the fierce woman I married, more like someone I should shield from the world.
Careful not to wake her, I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back.
She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes as I lift her.
I carry her to our bedroom, ease her down onto the mattress, and pull the covers up around her shoulders.
For a moment, I just stand there, looking at her, at the faint crease of exhaustion between her brows.
Walking out, I close the door softly behind me.
On my way back, I grab the baby monitor, switch on the nursery unit, and make sure both ends are working. Only when I’m certain, my girls safe, tucked away in sleep, do I finally take out my phone.
Trudy has three kids. If she’s telling me to call her today, it has to be important.
The phone barely rings before Trudy answers.
“Hold on,” she whispers. I hear shuffling on her end, before her voice comes again, low and urgent. “So, get this. This morning the boss comes in and brings his old college buddy with him.”
“Okay…” I frown, confused.
“This buddy,” she continues, “used to be the marketing manager of Creds before-”
“-before it was acquired by us,” I finish for her.
I can almost hear her nod.
“I thought he got a job at some international airline,” I say.
“Apparently Mr. Hughes decided Dan, that’s his name, by the way, is too valuable. Offered him a position here instead.”
My stomach drops. “As what?”
“Marketing director.”
My mouth falls open. “We don’t have that position.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I close my eyes, a cold rush moving through me. “Fuck. He’s my boss.”
“I know you’re not coming in till Monday,” Trudy says quickly, “but he’s scheduled a meeting with the reps from Boeing today.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s my account.”
“I know,” she whispers.
I draw in a deep breath, staring down the hallway where both bedroom doors are shut. My chest feels like it’s caving in. I can’t risk him fumbling that account, or the bonus attached to it.
“I’m coming in now,” I say hanging up.
Fuck.