Chapter 1
Haven
PRESENT DAY
“Shh . . . Everly Jeanne, baby. Shh. It’s okay. Mommy’s got you . . .”
Sometimes I wonder if she’s crying because I’m crying, or if I’m crying because she’s crying.
And if it’s ever going to stop.
I’ve been doing this for a little over a month. Six weeks, three days, two hours, and twenty-seven minutes to be precise—not that I’m counting—and it hasn’t gotten any easier.
I’ve been told it will.
At some point.
But when that day’s coming is anyone’s guess.
“Just eat . . .” I beg my daughter one more time, thrusting my swollen, veiny boob in her face. I don’t blame her for not wanting it. “Please. You’ll feel better. You’re hungry, is all.”
Her tinny, garbled wailing echoes around the small room I’m staying in, and I pray the walls are thick enough that we don’t disturb the other guests here.
Slowly pacing across the room, hoping the movement might calm Everly, and let’s face it, me, I stare at the wallpaper.
It feels like I’m standing in the middle of a summer meadow.
The walls are covered in flowers, creating a kaleidoscope of colors.
It’s a contrast to the gloomy, wet afternoon outside, one much more suited to my mood—and my daughter’s.
Summer meadow is not our vibe today. We’re too exhausted to appreciate any possible cuteness in this place.
I’m not surprised she’s as pissed as she is. We’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours, most of which we’ve been awake.
By the time I stepped off the plane in London, it was safe to say every passenger hated me.
No one had gotten any sleep because Everly decided she didn’t want to sleep.
The only time there was silence was when the poor stewardess had taken pity on me and carried her up and down the aisle for twenty minutes.
But the second she was back in my arms, the cries began again—like my own daughter couldn’t stand her mother’s company.
If it was possible, the journey from the airport felt even longer, and we arrived at the nearby train station only to get soaked in a rainstorm while I tried to figure out how to get to our hotel without an Uber in sight, nor a person to help.
It took another train to arrive with half a dozen passengers disembarking before I asked a kind-looking older lady for the directions to Valentine Nook and how to get there.
An hour of waiting for a taxi-cab later, followed by fifteen minutes of narrow, winding country roads that made me want to puke, and we arrived at the one hotel I could find to book.
So far, England sucks, and Everly agrees.
Only when I’m about to give up does she latch on.
Sometimes I wonder if she senses she’s almost pushed me to the brink of sanity and suddenly feels sorry for me. The deafening silence is broken up with hungry slurping and heavy breathing.
This time when my tears fall, they’re hot and grateful. Tears of relief that her belly will be full for the next few hours, along with renewed hope that she might sleep. And when she’s like this, I almost forget how hideous it can be, even mere minutes ago.
Everly lets out a gurgle, and I switch her over to the other side, and the relief for me is instant. My boobs had gotten to the point where they felt close to exploding.
When she was first born, getting her to drink was such a struggle. The nurse had to show me how to ease the pain in my chest from all the milk building up, while I tried not to panic that my daughter didn’t like me.
Because if she did, this wouldn’t be so hard, right?
It wouldn’t be this struggle.
I always miss my mom, but during the past six months since I discovered I was pregnant, I miss her so acutely it feels like my heart is breaking all over again. And when Everly fights me to eat and sleep, all I want to do is give up.
It’s not hard to imagine what she’d say in response. She’d tell me I was being ridiculous, that Everly is a baby, and babies are unpredictable, but I’ll get there. We just need to know each other a little better.
It’s exactly what Saylor’s been saying to me every time I’ve felt overwhelmed with the responsibility I’ve taken on.
That I’ve already proved over and over I’m more than capable of rising to the challenge of becoming a mom, to which I always reply that saving my family’s ranch from bankruptcy is nothing compared to raising a human.
I’m not quick enough to swipe away the tear before it falls on Everly’s head, but she doesn’t notice. Her little eyelids flicker as she greedily sucks down as much milk as her tiny body will let her.
Why can’t it always be like this?
Pushing out the darker thoughts that threaten to take hold, I begin my daily ritual of focusing on the positives and the new things I’ve learned about my daughter.
For instance, the little humming noise she’s making is what happens right before she falls asleep. If I’m lucky, I might get an hour myself until she wakes up again, or maybe this time it’ll be different because her body clock is as messed up as mine is.
The other thing I’ve learned is that sleep becomes a distant memory, and survival mode is the new norm.
It’s one of the reasons I’m currently standing in this floral-covered room, in a bed and breakfast, in the middle of a quaint town in the English countryside.
Probably not where I would have chosen to make my first trip outside the United States, yet here I am existing on no sleep and even less confidence that what I’m doing is the right thing.
But turning back isn’t an option.
Carefully, I rearrange the pillows on the queen bed so that I can lay Everly in the middle of them and change her diaper.
Thanks to Saylor, I have swaddling down to an art.
I don’t know if it works, but she stays milk drunk for long enough that she doesn’t stir, and I’ll do anything to buy me a couple of hours of quiet time.
Unlike her mother, Everly doesn’t seem to thrive on sleep.
In fact, beyond her rosy cheeks and button nose, I can’t find any similarities between us at all.
My daughter’s thick shock of chocolate-brown hair and piercing blue eyes have come straight from her father, along with, I’m assuming, her stubbornness.
But when she does finally sleep, watching her has become one of my favorite things in the whole world.
I’ve lost countless hours transfixed by the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her deep breaths evolve into soft snores, and I become so overwhelmed with love for this tiny creature that I inevitably start crying again.
To be honest, it’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t cry. My nerves are shot, and I’m on a runaway train of emotions, but when I look at Everly, the noise is silenced.
This time, the smell of milk and the pull of being clean tears me away from her, and less than ten minutes later, I’m sinking into a hot, soapy bath. And it seems I can’t even keep my emotions zipped up for this because the urge to cry stings my eyes.
And then my phone beeps with a message.
SAYLOR: How’re you doing? How’s my goddaughter?
HAVEN: Asleep.
SAYLOR: Have you seen him yet? What’s the place like?
HAVEN: No. I’ve literally got to my room and crashed. I haven’t seen anything or anyone except the porter.
SAYLOR: Get some sleep, and tomorrow is a new day. It’ll all be okay, Havey. I promise.
I begin typing a message, only to delete it. There’s nothing I can respond with because I don’t know whether it’s all going to be okay. I shut my phone off instead, and before I fall asleep in the bath, I climb out and dry myself.
My last thought as my head hits the pillow is that I’m here for my daughter. Everything I’m doing is for her.
I lost my parents too young, and I don’t want to steal her chance to have both of hers.
The multitude of colors on the wall momentarily blinds me when I open my eyes. The sunlight breaking through the drapes lights up the room enough that I’m much more appreciative of the summer meadow that we’re sleeping in than I was yesterday.
And it’s stopped raining.
I think I managed a solid five hours, which is the most I’ve gotten in one stretch since Everly was born. It also means Everly slept through for that long too, and turning to her, I find she’s staring up at the flowers on the wall, quiet and curious.
It’s the first time she hasn’t woken me up crying, which raises a wave of panic. Is something wrong with her?
Instead, I brave getting out of bed without disturbing her and manage to summon calm through a long stretch of my body, relishing in the peace as I do. Everything else is done at hyper-speed—peeing and brushing my teeth as quickly as possible so I can get through it before Everly begins to grumble.
But she doesn’t.
I manage to get back to bed, change her diaper, and start her feeding without so much as a tear.
“Wow, baby girl. You’re in a good mood today, huh? Did you sleep well? Was it the flowers on the wall you like?” I say in my gentle Everly voice, the one I’ve acquired since she was born.
Her only response is to keep feeding, her big blue eyes flickering up at me as she does. Her mood continues as I burp her, run another bath, and get in, propping her up on my legs. She gurgles as I squeeze out warm water from a washcloth onto her belly.
“You like that?” I ask, repeating it all, and reveling in the smile she’s been giving me the past week. “Did I tell you how beautiful you are today?”
I top up the water twice to reheat it. We stay in there until it cools again, and by the time we’ve gotten out and I’ve dressed her, I begin to feel a hint of confidence that today might not totally blow up to shit.
When we step outside a couple of hours later, it’s colder than it appeared from the warmth of our room.
The sun is playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds, and I stand in the middle of the street, wondering whether to go left or right.
The porter from last night was nowhere around for me to ask for help.
Instead, I head in the direction most other people seem to be walking.