I was drowning.
Not in water, but in everything else—exhaustion, spit-up, and a cycle of laundry, feedings, burpings, rocking, and begging for sleep.
I was drowning in the fear that I was already screwing it all up.
The twins were thriving, according to their pediatrician. Me? Not so much.
“Have you slept?” she asked.
I snorted. “When would I do that? It’s just me.”
“That’s exactly why you have to,” she said gently. “They need you at your best.”
“Great,” I sighed. “More guilt.”
“If that’s what gets you to rest, I’ll take it.”
She wasn’t wrong. But hearing it didn’t make it easier.
My apartment used to be as sharp and organized as my kitchen line—precise, spotless, efficient. Now it looked like a tornado had torn through a baby store. Toys they couldn’t even use yet littered the floor, cups of cold coffee hid in random corners, and my laundry mocked me from every surface.
I was a mess too. Sore. Stretched. A human dairy farm with a bun so tangled I might need to buzz it off. No spreadsheet or checklist could have prepped me for this bone-deep exhaustion or the crushing guilt.
How could I be burned out already? They were everything to me. My entire world.
But even so, I needed air.
A shower that lasted longer than thirty seconds. A breath where I felt like me again. And that want, that human need? It gnawed at me with every diaper, every sleepless night.
Carrie had stopped by earlier with food and a reminder. “We’ll need you back at Suivante soon,” she said softly.
I missed it—the heat of the kitchen, the chaos, the adrenaline. Being needed for more than just milk and diapers.
But the thought of leaving my babies with anyone else made me sick.
I had prepped for this. Planned for it. A nanny. A daycare, eventually.
Yet now?
The idea of anyone else holding them felt like a betrayal.
It was too soon.
I wasn’t ready.
A sharp knock on the door pulled me out of my downward spiral. I hesitated before making my way over, peeking through the peephole.
Mrs. Waverly. My elderly neighbor from across the hall, carrying a small basket wrapped in a checkered cloth.
No, no, no.
I couldn’t do one of her rambling monologues today. No lessons from the past, thank you very much. I’d be as polite about it as possible, but I had no patience left for adults. It was reserved for my girls.
I pulled open the door, forcing myself to smile. “Hi, Mrs. Waverly.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said immediately, taking in my disheveled state with her milky brown eyes. I had always envied her curls, even though they were ice white. They were perfect, as if she had spent hours in rollers each day. She was slight, maybe five feet tall, and if she owned pants, I didn’t know it. Every day, she wore a dress that looked hand sewn and beautiful. Her voice was normally very soft, but today, it felt like a hug. “You poor thing. You look done in.”
I let out a weak laugh. “Then I look as good as I feel.”
“Well,” she said, stepping inside and lifting the basket toward me. “These might help.”
I took it carefully, peeling back the cloth to reveal a neat stack of glorious homemade biscuits.
“They’re for lactation,” she explained. “Made them myself. I used to make these for my daughter when she had my grandson. Lots of good oats, a bit of brewer’s yeast, buttermilk for tang, and honey for sweetness. They’ll help with your energy, too. You’re not eating enough. I can see it on your face.”
Before Mrs. Waverly, no one had ever doted on me. I still wasn’t used to it. I stared down at them, something thick forming in my throat. I blinked hard, trying not to cry. “That is…so kind.”
She patted my arm. “I know how rough it is. The early days are the hardest, but you’ll get through it. You’re strong like me.”
I inhaled shakily, nodding. For a brief moment, I thought about asking her for help.
She loved babies. She had raised her own, had been a grandmother and a great-grandmother for decades. She was kind, patient, thoughtful.
I could ask her. I could—no. No, I couldn’t. She was in her eighties. She didn’t look it, and she was as spry as any fifty-year-old, but I knew better than to trust that.
What if something happened? What if she tripped? What if she dozed off while watching them? The what-ifs slammed into me, stifling out the idea before I could entertain it any further.
It wasn’t an option. I would have to hire someone. A professional. The thought made my stomach churn.
How did people do this? How did single mothers—how did any mothers—go back to work and leave their babies with strangers? How did you trust anyone enough to hand over the most fragile, most precious thing you had ever known?
“I should let you rest.”
Hearing her kind voice brought me back to the moment. I’d mentally wandered off at some point, and it took her voice to shake me out of it. “Sorry—I think I missed something.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Mrs. Waverly smiled, giving my arm another soft squeeze. “If you need anything, Ella, you know where I am. I’m always home, and I’m happy to help.”
If I thought I could leave my girls with her and her age wouldn’t have been a factor, I might have taken her up on the offer, just so I could shower or have a nap. But the reality was, I wouldn’t enjoy any of it. I’d be ready and waiting to jump in the second I heard Marissa’s melodic wail or Summer’s rapid-fire cough she did when she really wanted attention.
No rest for the wicked.
I nodded, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Thank you. Really.”
After she left, I set the biscuits down on the counter, pressing my hands flat against the cool surface. The biscuits smelled like heaven, but I felt like hell. I was in over my head. I had thought I was prepared. I had thought I was tough enough, strong enough, to do this alone.
I slid down onto the kitchen floor, knees pulled to my chest, and let myself fall apart. There on the floor, I wondered if I’d ever stop crying. But a crackle from the baby monitor made me jump to my feet. It always crackled right before the girls—
Yep. There’s the crying.
I ran into the nursery and found the pair crying in unison. Guess they know how overwhelmed I am, too. Solidarity is a bitch.
