14. Heidi
HEIDI
Two weeks after Ivy's birth, I visit the school clinic for twenty minutes and discover Celeste has posted again.
For one hopeful second, I think the nurse means a photograph of the baby or another complaint about hospital food. Then I see Beau's name repeated in the comments.
The post does not mention that Celeste had her sister, her doula, her child's father, and a hospital full of staff available when Beau left me. It does not mention Ivy at all.
It turns the choice into a contest between compassion and appearances. In that version, I am the woman who resents fear because it inconvenienced me.
“How many parents have seen it?” I ask.
My colleague does not soften the answer. “Enough.”
The healing ache low in my pelvis sharpens. I brace one hand on the desk and wait for it to ease.
I put the phone on the desk and look at the paper tree covered in children's hands. I worked here for six years before Celeste learned how easily she could bring herself into this room.
“Give me five minutes,” I say.
“Take ten.”
“Five. A child is due for medication.”
The ordinary responsibility steadies me. I will not disappear from my own work because strangers have been invited to discuss my marriage.
The nurse covering my leave identifies herself to a parent while I read the post again. She does not name me. The comments do.
Some people care more about appearances than what fear does to a pregnant woman. I learned who would come when I was alone outside a hospital, and who would rather protect the picture of a marriage. I will always be grateful to the person who refused to abandon me.
Before I leave the clinic, a teacher I have known for six years comes in without knocking. She asks if I need anything and looks so determined not to ask about Beau that the unasked question fills the room.
“I need people not to discuss this near the children,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And if a parent asks, my leave is medical and private.”
She nods. The clean boundaries feel better than sympathy.
Before I leave, I sit at my desk and update the handover notes for the nurse covering my leave.
The work is ordinary: allergy plans, a child returning after surgery, the parent who must be called before medication changes.
I can still make something orderly without pretending my marriage is orderly.
When a student taps at the open door to ask whether the baby has arrived, I show her one photograph of Ivy and accept her solemn approval.
At home with my mother, I send Celeste one message.
You have discussed my marriage publicly three times. If you want to speak to me, we will do it face to face in a public place.
I read the message twice before sending it.
Part of me wants to write more. I want to list every person available at Saint Catherine's and every minute Beau stayed after April arrived. I want Celeste to know exactly what I was doing while she called him through the hospital doors.
I delete all of it.
She knows enough to understand what she did. More detail will only give her more of me.
Her answer arrives within three minutes.
Gladly. I think a conversation without Beau would clear up several misunderstandings.
The confidence of it makes my pulse jump.
Name the place.
She chooses the diner on Market Street. I choose noon, when it will be full.
I call Beau after Celeste answers.
“Is Ivy all right?”
“She's fine. Celeste agreed to meet me at the Market Street diner.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No.”
“Do you want Dash nearby?”
“No.”
He exhales. “All right.”
“Tell me not to go.”
“Do you want me to?”
“I want to know what you think.”
He takes a moment.
“I think Celeste will try to make you responsible for choices I made. I think you already know enough to refuse that. I also think you should do what lets you live with yourself afterward.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Call if you need me.”
The phrase has belonged to Celeste for too long. I feel it land, and Beau must hear the silence.
“Or don't,” he adds. “You decide.”
After the call, I feed Ivy while Celeste's comments multiply. One person calls her brave. Another calls me controlling.
One account posts a photograph of me leaving the hospital with Ivy.
My face is turned away. The caption asks whether I am keeping a devoted father from his child.
I take screenshots only of the posts that concern my workplace, then close the app.
I will not spend my daughter's first weeks monitoring a woman who has already taken enough of my attention.
My thumb hovers over the reply box.
I could say he has already visited. I could explain the schedule. I could offer strangers proof that I am behaving reasonably.
I close the screen instead.
Ivy makes a small sound against me. I look down and discover her fist caught in the neckline of my shirt.
“You have excellent timing,” I tell her.
She opens her hand and grips the fabric again.
I hold her until the urge to defend myself passes.