Chapter 17
Luna
I push through the intricate layers of sleep I’ve somehow fallen into. Vague terrifying impressions of strangers taking Amelie away linger. For a few seconds, I just lie here, staring at the pale wash of morning light on the ceiling, trying to understand what feels … off.
Then it hits me.
I slept … through the night.
There is none of the bone-deep exhaustion that never used to let go before … everything happened.
After the conversation with Isaac yesterday, his eyes followed me as I got my pyjamas and shut the bathroom door behind me. He was gone by the time I came out, and Amelie was still asleep.
I close my eyes again, trying to piece together the night.
Fragments come back.
The bedroom door opening softly.
A gentle hand in my hair.
A familiar voice, rough around the edges, whispering something I can’t remember.
The quilt being tucked around me, especially around my cold feet.
And then … the slow hum of a lullaby. Deep like a vibration in my bones, lulling me back to sleep.
Isaac must have woken in the night and fed her because I slept like the dead. His side of the bed is untouched. Despite how things have been between us, it is unsettling not to have him sleeping beside me. Old habits.
I need to remember she is as much his as she is mine. And I can’t stop the inevitable trickle of guilt before I brush it away.
I push myself upright, wincing slightly at the pull in my back, and swing my legs off the bed. The room feels warmer than it should for this time of morning.
Of course it does. The warmth from the radiator tells me someone has turned the heating up.
My eyes move straight to the crib.
Empty.
There’s a quick spike of panic, but it fades just as fast.
Amelie’s gramma must have gotten to her first.
I scrub a hand over my face and stand, still wrapped in that unsettled feeling after a nightmare … when you try to convince yourself that strangers have not taken your baby away.
My pyjamas are the thick, faded, unsexy kind. I pad to my closet for my woollen socks and fluffy robe, then to the toilet to sleepily complete my morning routine. It feels like years since I have had the luxury of taking my time like this.
Refreshed, my hair in a messy, lopsided bun, I make my way downstairs.
When we bought this run-down, semi-detached house years ago, it felt like a never-ending dinosaur, consuming our energy and time.
We had done most of the renovation ourselves, bringing in professionals only for the roof, the plumbing, and the rewiring.
After tearing down a couple of walls, the lower level is now open-plan with a common kitchen and dining area.
The living room is separate, with large French windows overlooking the front garden and drive.
Tall hedges separate the houses, giving an illusion of privacy.
The kitchen glows ahead of me, full of soft early light. It is my favourite space in the house … Once our favourite space …
For a moment, it almost feels like I have travelled back in time.
Normal.
My mum is at the stove, already dressed, multitasking well as she always does. On the kitchen floor, the infant swing rocks gently, and I hear her soft gurgles before I see her.
Amelie.
The tension in my chest loosens instantly. I didn’t even realise it was there until I saw my baby.
I move closer, drawn to my little lodestone.
And then I let my eyes wander for just a second. Isaac is sitting at the island with a mug of coffee in his hands.
He looks up when I walk in and follows me with his eyes as I tickle Amelie’s little belly, making her kick out her little legs.
There is a subtle tension here that wasn’t before.
My parents often joke about having adopted Isaac after we got together. My mum, especially, loves him to bits. She is always admonishing him to eat less junk food, to work less.
But now, Mum doesn’t look at him. She moves around him, past him, like he’s someone she’s being polite to, not someone she has welcomed into her close-knit family.
The walls in the house are not soundproof. Our conversation was not as private as it should have been.
The teasing and ease are gone.
And because she’s always been so effortlessly warm, it feels almost brutal, even to me.
I stop near the island, suddenly unsure of myself in my own kitchen.
“Morning,” I say, my voice still a bit scratchy.
She turns immediately, and her whole body seems to brighten up on seeing me.
“There she is.” She sets the spatula down. “Did you sleep well?”
“I think so.”
“You think so,” she repeats, a faint smile touching her mouth. “It’s ten o’clock, so that’s a yes, then.”
Amelie kicks in the swing as if she agrees. I lean down automatically, brushing my fingers over her stomach again. She makes a pleased little sound.
“Tea,” I murmur.
A moment later, a large hand dusted with dark hair places my favourite mug in front of me—cream, with the tiny blue flowers. I don’t spare him a glance.
I wrap both hands around it and breathe in. It’s perfect, just the way Mum always makes it.
Boiling water first. Then tea leaves. Let it steep properly. Then milk. Then sugar.
Always in that order.
I take a sip and close my eyes for a second.
“Good?” she asks, ignoring Isaac as if he isn’t hovering.
“The best,” I reply with a smile.
She slides a plate in front of me. Eggs with spinach and chilli, just the way I like them. A large hand slides two pills in a small bowl right next to it.
“Eat while it’s hot. You need your protein. Take your calcium. You always forget. Do you need anything else?”
I shake my head, already attacking my eggs.
The warmth in her voice seems to wither into distant politeness when she turns slightly towards Isaac.
“Do you need anything else?”
Same words, just a very different tone.
It almost sounds like he’s a neighbour.
Isaac takes the hit without flinching, but a side glance at his expression reflects the hurt. “No. Thank you.”
He looks away quickly, and I look down at my plate.
Mum used to love him so much. She used to treat him like one of her own, and now, every interaction feels stripped clean of trust. He is back to square one.
And despite everything she said the other day at the hospital about men being clueless, I know the truth. She won’t forgive him easily for risking her daughter.
The silence is like a living being between us. Amelie’s little noises fill the gaps. I force myself to eat, even though my appetite lags. I’m nearly done when Isaac sets his mug down and stands.
The scrape of the chair makes both of us look up.
“I need to do some shopping,” he says generally.
He looks at me now. For a brief second, there is a question on his face—then hesitation. Or hope.
Then, as quickly as it appears, it is gone.
“Do you need anything?” he asks the side of my face almost hopefully when I go back to my tea.
My fingers clench slightly around my mug.
The question feels … like it is hiding a message. He wants to say something, but not in front of Mum … because she is wary of his motives now.
But I know him well enough to know what he is thinking.
“Do you still need me?”
“Do I still get to take care of things?”
“Is there any place left for me here?”
The tea tastes bitter in my mouth.
My first instinct screams no.
I wish I could spare myself the heartache. Put an end to this limbo. But I need him if I want to keep Amelie.
As if on cue, my baby lets out a loud, indignant squawk, as if to remind me of what is important.
“We’re low on baby wipes,” I say, before taking another sip.
He nods immediately. “Okay.”
Mum turns, finally making eye contact with him for the first time since I walked in.
“Get the sensitive ones,” she advises. “Not the scented rubbish.”
“Right.”
“And formula,” I add after a beat. “Do you know which one?”
“Yes.”
Isaac reaches for his keys from the bowl by the door and seems to hesitate, like he might say something else.
“I won’t be long,” he says instead, and then he leaves.
The front door clicks shut.
Mum moves to the island and lifts Amelie from the swing, settling her against her shoulder. My girl immediately starts gnawing at the towel.
I stare into my tea.
“I just feel … this guilt,” I say before I can stop myself.
Mum adjusts Amelie.
“Remember what Sandra said. None of that.”
“I know.”
“I’m not saying this to be cruel, but he needs to understand and own up to the part he played. I can’t trust him until he does better.”
“I know.”
She goes quiet for a moment. Mum is a peacemaker at heart.
My dad’s mother was territorial of her firstborn son.
I watched Mum bend over backwards to get along with her.
Once Grandma was diagnosed with dementia, Mum cared for her for years before she passed away.
I have never heard her badmouth her to us.
She comes closer, resting her hand lightly on my hair, smoothing it back the way she used to do when I was upset or hurt.
“I know you know,” she says softly. “You scared me, Luna. I don’t ever want to go through that again. And if that means I kick your clueless husband’s arse, that is what will happen.”
My throat feels full of tears.
Because that’s exactly it. I scared myself. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without my mum. My actions almost left my daughter without one.
I know Isaac’s sorry.
I know he probably didn’t sleep at all.
And none of it changes anything.
Mum shifts my baby into my arms. Amelie comes willingly, warm and wriggly and smelling of baby soap. I hold her close, pressing my lips to the soft side of her head.
“Eat some more,” Mum says.
“You always think food fixes everything,” I murmur.
“No,” she says, turning back to the stove. “I think things become clearer on a full stomach.”
I smile at that.
The sunlight pours through the windows. I settle on the sofa and pull my T-shirt up. Amelie immediately latches on as if the trials of the past never happened. I sink into the comfort of a morning on the sofa I chose for comfort.
The room is warm and painfully ordinary.
Just perfect.