Page 1 of The Other Mother

The desert air still feels like a novelty. Dry heat instead of humidity. Sun that doesn’t just warm, but scorches. I stand on the back patio with one hand resting on my belly, watching the neighbor’s flag ripple in the windless air.

Inside, the house smells like lemon cleaner and optimism.

Adam spent the morning putting together the crib, grumbling only a little.

Now it sits in the corner of the nursery perfectly centered under the window, exactly how I pictured it.

White wood. Pale yellow walls. The mattress still wrapped in plastic, like it’s waiting for permission to be real.

"You’re going to be an amazing mom," he said afterward, wiping sweat from his brow. "You’ve read every book. I haven’t even read the Dad Hacks PDF I downloaded."

He’s been different here. Softer, maybe. Still driven, still detail-obsessed, but less… brittle. The Southern California desert version of Adam is calmer, or maybe I just want him to be. A fresh start in a new place. That was the idea.

I head back inside where my phone buzzes with a text from a friend and a photo of her daughter covered in spaghetti sauce captioned your future . I laugh out loud, a real one, and text back: Bring it on.

The baby kicks; a firm, surprising thud. I press my palm against the movement like I can high-five her back.

I sit at the kitchen table and open my laptop. There’s a draft of a short story I’ve been ignoring for weeks, but today I type two full sentences before stopping. They're not brilliant, but they sound like me. Like a version of me I thought might be gone forever.

Before I close the lid I click over to the hospital website and double-check our preregistration. Room request: private. Birth plan: on file. No complications noted.

My eyes linger on the screen. There's a photo of the maternity wing. The same one we toured last month. Fluorescent lighting, beige walls, nurses smiling with too many teeth. One of the doors in the background is partially open. I didn’t notice it before, but it’s marked with a small red tag. A tiny thing. Easy to miss.

I close the laptop.

From the nursery, Adam calls out: "Claire, what do you think? Safari theme or stars?"

"Stars," I say, already on my feet. "Definitely stars."

Because right now, everything still feels like it’s falling into place.

Not apart.