Chapter 11
Luna
The next few days blur into each other, like I am slowly being sewn back together, one small stitch at a time.
The first evening after I wake up, Mum and Dad turn up with Amelie, and every detail seems to come into focus.
Isaac comes in with a nurse, and a small crib is placed beside my bed. But my attention is elsewhere.
I can only see her. And I start to cry.
There is this sudden, overwhelming mix inside me—guilt for what I did, happiness at seeing she is alright, embarrassment that everyone knows.
But Mum doesn’t hesitate. She immediately knows what I need.
She moves quickly, like she has been waiting for this moment, and gently places Amelie straight into my arms. I was half-afraid they wouldn’t let me hold her, and Mum sees that in my eyes.
All she says is, “Oh, love,” and she kisses my forehead after a quick hug before backing away.
My hands tremble as I hold Amelie, tracing her tiny fingers, her soft knuckles, the way her little feet kick restlessly against me. She has grown.
She looks up at me.
Her eyes are shaped just like Isaac’s.
She tracks me with those green orbs, curious and unblinking.
And then she seems to remember my purpose in life and starts rooting.
I lift my T-shirt, and she latches on, just the way I imagined it.
That first pull is painful, and I wince, but it gets easier.
I sit propped up, and all feels right. Not one moment since I came home from the hospital has felt like this one.
Mum smiles like this is exactly how she knew it would be.
Dad mutters something under his breath and gently ushers Mum towards the door, giving me space without making a fuss of it. Isaac pulls the chair close to the window in this cramped cubicle and just watches, giving me space, though I can feel him controlling his instinct to come closer.
He has been hovering all morning, never far away. After the doctor leaves, he gingerly pulled a chair next to the bed and reached for my hand.
“Is this okay?” he asks, not letting go until Lily comes in with a piping hot paper cup of tea. She chats on. I expected recriminations from both of them, but she only pulled me into a hug, and then leapt up with moist eyes to find a nurse to take my catheter out.
As I change sides and brace for Amilie to latch on, the conversation with Sandra after the morning rounds comes back to me.
She stayed after the doctor left and, with quiet authority, shooed everyone out. Then, she sat beside me on the bed like we were neighbours catching up over tea.
“You’re on a low dose of sertraline. It’s an antidepressant,” she said, not flinching from telling me the facts. “It’s safe to breastfeed, though we’ll keep an eye on Amelie.”
I nodded, still unsure, still trying to process everything that had happened.
“You need to take it. The medication will help you. And in all fairness, you may find you come off it in a few months,” she added.
“Do whatever it takes to feel better. And if breastfeeding is stressing you out,” she continued, folding her arms, watching me carefully, “then maybe think about stopping.”
That made me look up. No one had ever said that to me.
“No one has the right to judge you,” she said firmly, reading me correctly. “Feeding your baby is not a competition. It should be about bonding, not breaking yourself to meet everyone’s expectations.”
Then, she leaned back slightly, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at her lips.
“I’ve got two kids, you know,” she said. “One’s a champion boxer. Went to the Olympics. The other’s a neurosurgeon.”
I nodded.
“Both bottle-fed,” she added without a hint of apology. “Had no milk. And I knew enough to tell my old hag of a mother-in-law to fuck off.”
My mouth hung open at the language, and she laughed.
That tight knot inside my chest loosened.
I started talking, then. I blabbered like a lunatic.
About how I was still upset about Isaac’s ex holding my baby on the day she was born.
About Isaac, who tends to keep quiet just to keep the peace with his mum.
About Manon, who has no boundaries. And I spent a good half an hour saying petty nonsense about Chloe, who has slowly slithered into our lives ever since she moved back to the UK from France six months ago.
“I’ve never been depressed. But that bitch is enough to make me an alcoholic. Her little innocent butter won’t melt in my mouth act made me want to throw up more than I already was,” I said. “But this depression. I don’t understand how this … How I—”
There was a knock, and Dr Davis popped his head in.
“Would you mind if I join the party?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“I just don’t understand how I got to the point where I thought I should kill myself. I don’t feel like that anymore. I just don’t understand how I could have been depressed,” I continued, close to tears.
Dr Davis looked thoughtful.
“See this?” He lifted his arm to show me a little pod attached to the underside of his arm.
“I have type 1 diabetes,” he said simply. “My parents struggled with it when I was younger until I learned to manage it myself. I was diagnosed at six.”
He paused as he looked at me directly.
“Do you think it was my fault that so much of their attention went to me? Do you think it is my fault I needed the care? Do you think I didn’t deserve it?”
“That’s different,” I said immediately.
He shook his head gently.
“No, it’s not.”
“You have a condition,” he said. “After childbirth, your hormones drop rapidly—oestrogen, progesterone. Your stress hormones go up. Your brain chemistry shifts. It affects how you think, how you feel, how you cope.” He shrugged slightly.
“It’s not weakness. Your hormones and neurotransmitters are out of balance.
And if you need medication, then you need medication. ”
Then he smiled
“I think you’ll do whatever it takes to get back to your daughter. Right?”
That pulled a small, reluctant smile out of me.
“Right,” I said, looking at both of them. “Thank you.”
Sandra just smiled.
“You’re welcome, lass. We will talk more tomorrow, alright?”
Now, I sit here, with Amelie in my arms, feeding her, feeling her weight against me, watching her tiny hand curl into my gown as her little mouth moves, eyes just like mine watching me like I am the most interesting thing she has ever seen.
And I feel that pull I felt when she was doing cartwheels within me while I was trying to sleep.
She is my reason. My everything.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I look down at my daughter.
She settles against me like she belongs here. The stars seem like they have aligned.
I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I just know that I want to keep trying to put myself back together, one small step at a time.
***
The next few days pass in a quiet, repetitive cycle—doctors, nurses, medications, and rest. So much rest. It feels like my body is forcing me to slow down in a way I have never allowed myself to before.
Mum takes over when she needs to, feeding Amelie with formula from time to time, and I notice something strange.
I don’t feel guilty, not the way I would have a week ago.
It feels necessary for me to get better.
Sandra was right. It does take the pressure off, to know that my baby is getting enough.
Lily has to go back, but before she leaves, she leans against the bed, arms folded, and watches me in that way she does.
“We have a lot to talk about,” she says finally. “But you’ve got too much going on right now.”
I don’t argue. I would also like to postpone that conversation.
“I’ll come back this weekend,” she adds. “We’ll see if you’re ready then.” Then she taps my forehead lightly. “Chin up, loser.”
A small smile pulls at my lips despite everything.
“Okay,” I say.
She nods once and leaves, and the room feels emptier without her.
Amelie is fast asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that I find myself syncing to without even realising.
Then Isaac comes in.
I have noticed that the temperature in the room drops a few degrees when Lily sees him.
He carefully closes the door behind him and walks in, like he is not sure where he’s allowed to stand anymore.
After a moment of indecision, he sits beside me. His eyes don’t meet mine.
Isaac now does this thing where he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking—quick, stolen glances—and then looks away the moment I turn towards him.
And I—
I’m ready for it. Ready for that fight.
For the explosion that has been building inside me since the day I gave birth. I am going to tear into him. I can feel it sitting there, sharp and waiting for an outlet.
I get one thing now.
Men don’t do complicated.
They sense something is wrong, something off, but instead of asking, instead of digging, they circle it. Tiptoe around it. Wait for it to resolve on its own or for the wife to forget. Which she never does.
So, it is up to me to take the lead.
Earlier today, Manon came in with Isaac’s father, Kel.
She sat beside my bed and looked at Amelie for a long moment before speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, not meeting my eyes. I could feel she meant it, but I was not quite in that forgiving place yet.
“I would like to—”
I stopped her gently with my palm out.
“I do not want to have this conversation yet,” I said. “I think we should wait until I’m home.”
She nodded immediately, her eyes filling as she sniffed, accepting it without argument.
And as she stood to leave, something in me hardened just enough to say it. The kid gloves were off.
“I don’t want to see Chloe here,” I said.
She paused as if she had been expecting it. Manon always has her way, and I have always given in to keep the peace.
“She is not my friend,” I continued, my voice steady now. “And she will not touch my daughter again.”
Manon didn’t argue. She just nodded and left.