Invisible String

49

The next morning, I sat on the couch with Mira in my lap, her head resting heavy against my chest, fingers tangled in the collar of my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear. Lily was twirling in the middle of the living room in one of Kylie’s old dance recital costumes she found in a bin somewhere, singing a made-up song that included the word “rainbow” at least seventeen times. And Baylor—sweet, sleepy, beautiful Baylor—was finally passed out in Travis’s arms after another brutal night of feeding and rocking and bouncing and praying he’d give us at least a little stretch of sleep.

I watched them all—my kids, my whole world—and still… I felt off. Like I was watching my life from behind a piece of glass. Present, but distant.

I hadn’t brought a pump. Why would I have? I hadn’t even known I was pregnant when we flew out here. So now, feeding Baylor meant feeding on demand, every hour and a half like clockwork. No breaks. No bottles. Just me, and his hunger, and the aching, raw tenderness of a body that wasn’t ready to be back in service so soon.

And Mira… Mira was feeling it too.

She’d been clingy ever since we brought Baylor home. No longer my easygoing girl. She cried when I put him on my chest. She whined when I lifted him instead of her. And now, sitting on my lap with her cheek pressed hard against my heart, she kept letting out little sighs like she was trying to make sure I didn’t forget her.

I rubbed her back gently, guilt pressing deep into my ribs. “I love you too,” I whispered, kissing her curls. “You’re still my baby.”

But God, it was hard.

Travis looked over from the armchair, eyes tired but kind. “He’s out cold,” he said quietly. “Want me to put him in the bassinet?”

I shook my head. “No, keep him. If he wakes up the second we put him down, I might just… cry on the floor and stay there forever.”

He smiled gently, not laughing at me, just offering the soft, understanding kind of smile that said I know. That kind of smile is rare, and it hits different when you’re hanging by a thread.

“I can take Mira,” he said, shifting slightly but careful not to jostle Baylor. “Let you breathe for a second.”

Mira heard that and gripped me tighter. “No,” she mumbled, half-asleep, half-stubborn.

“She’s glued to me today,” I sighed.

“She misses you.”

“I miss me,” I admitted, and the tears were back again—just behind my eyes, threatening but quiet. I was so tired of crying.

Lily twirled toward us and flopped dramatically onto the rug. “Can someone watch me dance again? You didn’t see the spin I did.”

“I saw it, baby,” Travis said, smiling over at her.

“No, Mommy didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Lil,” I said softly. “Can you show me again?”

She sat up and gave a little huff but stood, determined to try again.

I watched her twirl, Mira pressed into me, Baylor safe in Travis’s arms, and for the first time all morning, I didn’t feel like I was drowning. Just floating—still tired, still raw—but not under.

We were outnumbered. We were overwhelmed.

But we were in it together. And that mattered.

The day of Baylor’s first doctor’s appointment came faster than I expected. Everything still felt like a blur—night bleeding into day, hours marked only by feedings and diaper changes and desperate sips of cold coffee. But there we were, packed up in Kylie and Jason’s SUV, all three kids in the backseat: Baylor strapped into the brand-new emergency car seat, Mira in her spot already mid-nap, and Lily chatting nonstop about how doctors were “actually kinda fun if they give you stickers.”