Where You Left Us

Smiling Through It All

Jennie's POV

It was just me and Ella.

Lisa had gone out to grab groceries — "Just a quick run, promise," she'd said, pressing a kiss to my temple and another to Ella's forehead before slipping on her hoodie and disappearing out the door.

I had nodded and smiled, like I always did. Told her to get oat milk and the cereal she liked. Told her we'd be fine.

Now the house was quiet again, sunlight spilling in through the curtains, dancing lazily across the floor. Ella was resting against my chest in the baby wrap, her tiny breaths warming the fabric of my shirt.

She smelled like baby shampoo and the faintest hint of milk. Her fingers flexed every few seconds in her sleep, like she was dreaming of something she couldn't quite hold yet.

I kept patting her back. Soft. Steady. Reassuring.

Even though I didn't feel any of those things.

I wandered into the kitchen out of habit, staring at the counter where bottles still needed washing, a half-full coffee cup sat abandoned, and a burp cloth was bunched up near the sink. The baby monitor blinked even though she was right here, asleep on me.

I wanted to do something. Clean. Fold the laundry. Answer the text Irene sent me hours ago. Something productive.

Instead, I stood in place.

I didn't want to move because if I moved, I'd hear how loud the silence was. And if I heard the silence, I'd start thinking again.

And I couldn't afford to think.

Because the moment I did, the same thought would creep in:

You're not doing this right.

Lisa makes it look easy. Why don't you?

What if Ella feels it? What if she grows up and knows?

My chest tightened, and I bounced her gently — not because she stirred, but because I needed to feel like I was doing something right.

"You're okay, baby," I whispered. "You're okay."

I wasn't, though. Not even a little.

There was no screaming. No dramatic breakdown. Just this quiet, sinking feeling. The kind that starts in your stomach and crawls up to your chest. The kind that makes you feel like you're underwater, and everyone else is breathing just fine above you.

I looked around the living room — the blanket Lisa and I had cuddled under last night still tossed on the couch, the baby swing we never figured out how to assemble properly.

Everything looked normal. But I felt like I was breaking.

I shifted Ella slightly and rested my cheek against her head.

She made a soft sound — not quite a cry, more like a sleepy protest — and I rubbed her back again.

"You're okay," I said again. "You're okay, baby. I'm here."

I didn't say we're okay.

Because I didn't know if that was true.

Lisa would be back soon. She'd walk in with her canvas tote bag and a story about how someone tried to cut in front of her at the checkout line. She'd pick up Ella and hum a song I didn't even know she knew.

And I'd smile. Like always.

Because it was easier than saying what I really felt.

That maybe Lisa was built for this. And maybe I was just... standing in the way.

I looked down at Ella, brushing a finger gently along her cheek. "I'm trying," I whispered, even though she wouldn't understand.

I didn't know if I was saying it to her or to myself.

_______________

The door creaked open, and I instantly adjusted Ella in the wrap, smoothing her tiny hat as if that one act would make me look more "together."

"Babe?" Lisa's voice floated in, light and cheerful. "I come bearing snacks and emotional support oat milk."

I turned toward her with a soft smile. Not too wide. Just enough.

"There she is," I said. "Oat milk goddess."

Lisa kicked off her shoes, balancing the grocery bags on one arm as she leaned in to kiss me. She pressed her lips to mine, then to Ella's forehead. I tried not to let my breath catch.

"You two survived without me," she teased, brushing a hand gently over Ella's cheek. "Look at you — mom mode activated."

I let out a small laugh. "She only screamed for twenty minutes."

Lisa froze for a second. "Wait, seriously?"

"No," I said quickly, my voice too light, too breezy. "She was an angel. We just stared at each other dramatically like in a K-drama."

Lisa chuckled, but her eyes lingered on mine for just a second longer than usual. That's when I knew she was starting to sense it. That something was... off.

She was good at reading me. Too good.

"Everything okay?" she asked casually, like she was tossing the words out just to test the waters.

I turned away under the guise of unloading her bag reaching for the fruit, the bread, the oat milk, like it required all my focus.

"Yeah," I said. "Just tired. You know how it is."

She came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. Her chin rested on my shoulder, her warmth pressing into me.

"You sure?" She asked again.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Positive."

Ella stirred slightly in the wrap, and I instinctively adjusted her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. She settled again. Lisa looked down at both of us with something that made my heart ache — so much love. So much faith in me.

I wished I could feel it for myself.

Lisa started unpacking the rest of the groceries, humming a little tune under her breath. I leaned against the counter, watching her the way she moved around the kitchen like it was second nature now, the way she glanced over at us every few seconds like she still couldn't believe this was real.

She made it look easy.

Being a mom.

Being this version of herself.

And then there was me.

Pretending I wasn't drowning. Smiling at all the right times. Laughing when I needed to. Doing everything I could to make sure no one — especially Lisa — ever saw the crack.

Because if she saw it, she'd ask again. And I didn't trust myself to answer truthfully.

Not yet.

So I stood there, arms around Ella, heart in my throat, and played the part of the happy mom. The grateful partner.

And maybe I was those things. But I was also something else.

Terrified.