Chapter 5 Jordan
JORDAN
The silence in my house feels different with Henry here. Not peaceful anymore, but heavy with expectation. Like the walls are waiting to see if I’ll figure this out or completely fail.
Henry sits in his carrier on my kitchen island, staring at me with those dark eyes that look so much like Amy’s. The formula and diapers I bought at the store sit on the counter next to what appears to be enough baby supplies to stock a small store.
The trip to CVS was a nightmare. I stood in the baby aisle for twenty minutes staring at dozens of different formula options.
Sensitive stomach. Gentle. Organic. How was I supposed to know which one Henry needed?
I ended up calling the daycare, and Mrs. Black had to walk me through it over the phone while other shoppers gave me sympathetic looks.
The diaper section was just as confusing. Size three? Size four? Overnight protection or regular? I bought three different kinds just to be safe.
“Okay, buddy,” I say, pulling out my phone to search for baby-feeding schedules. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”
The search results are overwhelming. Every website says something different. Some say babies Henry’s age should eat every two hours. Others say three to four hours. One site suggests following the baby’s cues, which is completely unhelpful when I don’t know what his cues are.
I settle on a schedule that seems reasonable and start with the bottle, following the formula instructions like they’re a medical procedure. Precise measurements. Proper temperature. When I offer it to Henry, he latches on immediately and drinks like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“See? Not so hard.” I’m talking to myself, but Henry doesn’t seem to mind.
The bottle is almost empty when Henry starts fussing. Then crying. Then full-on wailing, his tiny face turning red with the effort.
I check his diaper. Clean. The formula can’t be too hot or too cold because he was drinking it fine a minute ago. Maybe he’s still hungry? I offer the bottle again, but he turns his head away and cries harder.
“Come on, Henry. Work with me here.”
I try holding him upright. Laying him down. Walking around the kitchen while bouncing him gently. Nothing works. The crying gets louder, more desperate, and I feel my own panic rising.
What if something’s wrong? What if he’s sick? What if I’m already failing at the one thing Amy trusted me to do?
My phone rings, and I grab it with my free hand while still trying to soothe Henry.
“Jordan? How’s it going?” Mom’s voice is warm but tinged with worry.
“Fine,” I lie, raising my voice over Henry’s cries. “Everything’s great.”
“Is that the baby crying?”
“He’s just a little fussy. Probably tired.”
The understatement of the century. Henry’s cries have reached a pitch that makes my ears ring.
“Have you tried burping him?” Mom asks. “Sometimes babies cry after eating if they need to get air bubbles out.”
Burping. Of course. I’m a doctor, and I didn’t think to burp a baby after feeding.
“Yeah, I tried that,” I lie again. “He’s settling down now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come up? Your father’s feeling much better.”
“No.” Like the last time, the word comes out sharper than I intended. “I mean, there’s no need. We’re handling everything fine here.”
We talk for a few more minutes, Mom giving me advice I pretend I already know, while Henry continues his protest. After I hang up, I immediately look up “how to burp a baby” on my phone.
The first website shows a simple technique: hold the baby upright against your chest and pat their back gently. I adjust Henry’s position, and within thirty seconds, he lets out a burp that seems impossible for someone his size.
The crying stops instantly.
“Well, that was easy,” I mutter, though my hands are still shaking from the adrenaline.
Henry looks up at me with a satisfied expression, like he’s wondering what took me so long to figure that out. For the first time since I brought him home, I feel like maybe I can do this.
The feeling lasts exactly twenty minutes.
Henry falls asleep in my arms, and I manage to transfer him to the bassinet I set up in one of my guestrooms months ago for when he and Amy are over. I use the quiet time to unpack more of his things, trying to babyproof a house that was definitely not designed with children in mind.
The doorbell rings, and I freeze. Henry stirs but doesn’t wake. I hurry to the door and find a delivery truck in my driveway.
“Crib delivery for Hadley,” the driver says, wheeling a large box up my front walkway.
Right. The crib I ordered online this afternoon in a panic after realizing Henry couldn’t sleep in his car seat forever. I’d picked the first one with good reviews and expedited shipping, not really thinking about the fact that it would need to be assembled.
The box is enormous. The instruction manual that falls out when I open it is thicker than some medical textbooks I’ve read. This is going to take hours.
I check in on Henry, still sleeping peacefully in his bassinet. Maybe the bassinet will work for another night or two while I figure out how to put this thing together.
As I drag the box inside, a nagging feeling settles in my stomach. I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something important. Baby food? I bought formula, but Henry is six months old. Don’t babies start eating solid food around now? And what about toys? Medicine? Baby-safe cleaning supplies?
The list of things I don’t know feels endless.
When Henry wakes up an hour later, he’s crying again. Different crying this time. More urgent.
I check his diaper, and the smell hits me immediately. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for this part. In the hospital, other people change the diapers. Other people deal with the messier aspects of human biology.
It takes me three tries and half a pack of wipes to get Henry clean and into a fresh diaper. By the time I’m done, we’re both exhausted, and there’s evidence of the ordeal on my shirt.
I’m washing my hands when I catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen window next door. A woman’s silhouette, there for just a moment before the curtains fall back into place.
My neighbor. I’ve seen her around over the years, usually with a boy who is elementary school age. She’s pretty, probably around my age or a few years younger, with the kind of warm smile she gives the kid that makes it obvious she’s a good mom.
I’ve thought about introducing myself a dozen times over the years, but I never have a good reason to. What would I say? Hi, I’m your workaholic neighbor who you probably never see because I’m always at the hospital?
Now, with Henry fussing in the living room and my complete incompetence on full display, she might as well be living on another planet. I can’t even handle one baby for a few hours. The last thing I need is to expose my failures to someone who clearly has this parenting thing figured out.
I close the blinds and focus on Henry, who’s decided he’s hungry again even though he ate just two hours ago. According to what Amy told me once, babies should eat every three to four hours. According to Henry, schedules are merely suggestions.
As I prepare another bottle, my phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Williams asking for some details about my patients. This afternoon, after letting work know what was going on, one of my colleagues mentioned how important bonding is at Henry’s age, and so I did what seemed right.
I took a month off work and pulled him out of daycare.
It might seem extreme, but the little guy doesn’t have his mom right now. He has… well, me. And if we’re going to do this thing, I want to do it right.
I’d almost forgotten all about work, but seeing the message reminds me that I have a whole other life that’s currently on hold.
A life that made sense. A life where I knew what I was doing.
I glance at the clock. It’s only seven p.m., and I already feel like I’ve been taking care of Henry for a week. How do people do this every day? How did Amy make it look so effortless?
The thought of Amy hits me like a physical blow. She’s lying in that hospital bed right now, machines monitoring her breathing, and I’m here complaining about diaper changes and feeding schedules.
Meanwhile, my sister, my best friend, my rock… she might never wake up. And then Henry will be an orphan, just like I was at his age.
The fear I’ve been pushing down all day rises to the surface, threatening to overwhelm me. Amy has been the one constant in my life since we were kids. She’s the one person who knows me completely, who loves me despite all my flaws.
What if I lose her?
Henry starts crying again, pulling me back to the present. This time, I remember to burp him after his bottle, and the crying stops quickly. Small victories.
“Your mom is going to be okay,” I tell him as I rock him gently. “She’s the strongest person I know. She’s going to wake up and come home, and she’s going to be so proud of how well you’re doing.”
Henry looks up at me with those serious dark eyes, and for a moment I imagine I see understanding there. Like he knows we’re both scared, both figuring this out as we go along.
“Until then, it’s just you and me, buddy. We’ll figure it out together.”
The house settles around us, quiet except for the soft sounds Henry makes as he drifts back to sleep.
Through the closed blinds, I can see lights on in the house next door, and I wonder what it’s like to have neighbors you actually know, to be part of a community instead of just someone who comes and goes without connecting.
But that’s a luxury I can’t afford right now. Right now, it really is just me and Henry against the world, and I have to be enough for both of us.