Something Like Shelter

Chapter One

Willa

The days no longer had any order.

They blurred instead—dissolving around the edges, each moment slipping through my fingers before I could even grab hold of it.

Morning was only a suggestion.

Afternoon, a guess.

And night crept in nearly unnoticed, folding gently around my shoulders while I swayed at the window, my newborn tucked against my chest.

The house had become impossibly quiet.

For the first several weeks, my home had been full of noise—laughter that carried down the halls, footsteps crossing rooms as someone paced with my baby, quiet reassurances, the soft whoosh of the dishwasher.

Now, though, it felt like the house held its breath with me.

The silence was impossibly loud.

Like it had expanded into the space left behind after my family and friends had slowly returned to their own lives.

In the early days, someone had always been there.

Someone to pass me a fresh cup of tea.

Someone to tell me that the baby would sleep eventually.

Someone to hold my daughter while I took a shower three days overdue.

And as much as I’d appreciated them, it felt important for me to learn to do this on my own, to settle into this new life.

Now, there was only this small universe of two.

Me and my baby.

In a house too large for two fragile, sleepless hearts.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure which of us needed to hear it more.

I believed it. Somewhere deep in my soul. Buried under all the insecurities and uncertainties.

Sure, the fatigue had become something that lived deep in my bones. And, yes, my hair was limp and greasy. Parts of me ached that I’d never been aware of before.

But beneath the exhaustion, the loneliness, the quiet, the disorienting pace of this new life—there was wonder.

There was a fierce, yet breath-stealing tenderness that I’d never felt before.

It arrived without warning, settling in my chest at the smallest of things: the curl of tiny fingers, the delicate weight of her little body, the soft cooing sounds she made.

Love, I had learned, was an all-consuming thing.

Immense.

Ever-spreading.

Limitless.

I crossed back toward the glider as the first golden rays of light flirted across the floorboards, highlighting dust that had settled in places I’d been too distracted to notice, let alone clean.

I made a mental note that was likely going to be buried under the next diaper change, the toppling tower of laundry, and my near-empty fridge that needed stocking.

“Is today the day we venture out of the house?” I asked the baby who was still looking up at me with wide eyes, despite being awake nearly the whole night.

All those real-life things felt suspended. They used to shape my former life: my car, the gym, work, errands, outings with friends and family.

Outside, the world continued on without me at its usual breakneck pace.

Inside, even my thoughts seemed to move differently—softer, slower, everything becoming gentler.

Adelaide grumbled, prompting me to start rocking the glider.

Little by little, her small breaths evened out into that delicate, hypnotic rhythm that I’d come to measure my whole existence by.

Her little eyelids drooped, closed, then stayed that way.

I sat there, too worried to move, tired beyond language, but heart unbearably full.

And the phrase crossed my mind again.

It’s going to be okay.

This hadn’t been the future I’d painstakingly laid out for myself in my five-year plan.

This was supposed to follow a very precise, carefully laid-out schedule. I had footnotes and contingency plans.

None of them included two pink lines without a ring on my finger, without a partner to share the labor of parenthood.

I was a bit scared to move.

But I really, really wanted some tea.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, glancing around the room as the morning light brightened even the darkest corners.

My brother and father had painstakingly painted the floral mural in muted pinks and yellows on the wall behind the crib.

My mother had brought the soft linen bedding all the way from France.

My aunts, uncles, and cousins had built, bought, or restored all of the furniture, the toys, the blankets, and the clothing tucked into the closet.

I wasn’t alone, not really.

Everyone was just a call away.

What can I say other than that my own stubborn hyper-independence was what had me not reaching for my phone to ask one of the many members of my inner circle (who’d offered a dozen times) to go to the store for me.

Besides, there was no reason to bother anyone else. Even if I couldn’t manage to get myself bathed and dressed and out the door, there was always grocery delivery to fall back on.

Was that the healthiest idea, mentally? Probably not. I was so isolated already. The only times I’d left the house since Adelaide came was to take her to her pediatrician. Though I did have my postpartum visit scheduled in a few days to look forward to. Oh, joy.

But the outside world would come for me soon enough. I wasn’t in a big rush to get back out there.

Was I probably going to get bruised apples and wilted lettuce if I had it shopped for me? Sure. But I honestly barely even tasted my food these days. I caught myself shoveling the last of my shredded cheese into my mouth the night before for dinner like some kind of animal.

I thought about grabbing my phone, of opening an app, of browsing through the endless options of foods to add to a cart.

But I wasn’t sure I could pay that mental tax yet.

So I leaned back, let my eyes drift closed.

For just a moment, everything was still.

Then there was a violent crack splitting the quiet, followed by the unmistakable rush of water.

Adelaide’s body jerked.

A shrieking cry escaped her.

Somewhere deep in the house, a pipe surrendered.