Page 3 of The Other Mother

THAT'S NOT YOUR BABY

T he Desert Springs Wellness Center smells like industrial disinfectant and the kind of vanilla air freshener they use in dentist offices. Everything here is beige. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige chairs arranged in a perfect circle like we're about to perform some suburban ritual sacrifice.

Eva's car seat sits heavy on me, the handle cutting into my forearm despite the padded grip.

She's been asleep since we left the house, which should be a relief but somehow makes me more anxious.

What if she wakes up during the meeting?

What if she cries and I can't console her in front of all these other mothers who seem to have figured out some secret I'm missing?

I'm early because I was terrified of being late.

The drive only took fifteen minutes because there's no traffic here, everything is close and central, but I left the house over thirty minutes ago anyway.

These desert streets all look the same. Identical stucco houses, identical palm trees planted at regulation intervals, identical mailboxes shaped like little adobe missions.

When we lived in Orange County, it would take forty-five minutes to go anywhere, even off-peak hours.

I knew every shortcut from our condo to my office in Newport Beach, but it still meant sitting in traffic, watching brake lights stretch endlessly ahead.

Here I can drive across town in the time it used to take me to get out of our neighborhood, but I still can't find the grocery store without GPS.

The air conditioning is cranked so high my nipples are already sore through my nursing bra.

I should have brought a sweater, but Eva spit up on the only cardigan that still fits and I didn't have time to change.

Everything feels urgent these days, like I'm always running late for something I can't name.

I sit in a chair facing the door so I can watch the other women arrive. Habit from my old job, where I learned to read people in publishing meetings. The desperate writers, the overconfident editors, the agents who smiled while they planned to stab you in the back. I got good at spotting tells.

The first woman who walks in looks like she hasn't slept in months. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that might have started neat this morning, and she's carrying a diaper bag that's seen better days. She gives me a tired smile and sits three chairs away.

"First time?" she asks .

I nod. "You?"

"Third week. It gets better." But she doesn't sound convinced.

More women trickle in. A blonde with perfect makeup who looks like she stepped out of a fancy yoga studio. A redhead in scrubs who must be coming straight from work. A woman about my age wearing a Cal State Fullerton sweatshirt that makes me homesick.

And then there's the woman who sits directly across from me.

She doesn't look tired like the rest of us. She looks hollow. Pale skin stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, dark circles under eyes that seem too big for her face. Her clothes are clean but wrinkled, like she slept in them. Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that might have been neat yesterday.

She doesn't smile when she catches me looking. Doesn't look away either. Just stares with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

They all look tired. Stretched thin. But they also look like they belong to their lives in a way I don't belong to mine anymore. All except the pale woman, who looks like she doesn't belong anywhere.

The group leader arrives at exactly ten AM. She's younger than I expected, maybe late twenties, with the kind of enthusiastic energy that makes me want to crawl under my chair. Her name tag says "Jessica" in cheerful purple letters.

"Good morning, mamas!" She settles into her chair with a clipboard and a travel mug that probably contains something stronger than coffee. "I see we have a new face today. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

All eyes turn to me. The attention feels heavy, suffocating. Back when I worked at the publishing house, I gave presentations to rooms full of people without breaking a sweat. Now eight sleep-deprived women staring at me makes my hands shake.

"I'm Claire. My daughter's name is Eva. She's six weeks old." I paste on a smile that feels stapled in place.

The women murmur polite responses. Welcome to the group. It's so nice to meet you. How are you adjusting?

How am I adjusting? I want to laugh. I want to tell them that yesterday I spent twenty minutes looking for my keys while they were in my hand. That I put Eva's diaper on backwards twice this week. That sometimes when I look at her, I feel like I'm looking at a stranger's child through glass.

Instead, I say, "It's been a process."

Jessica nods knowingly. "The newborn phase is so challenging. What brought you to our group today?"

I think about the real answer. That my husband treats me like I'm made of spun sugar and might break if he speaks too loudly.

That I moved to a place where I know no one and have nothing to do except stare at a baby who doesn't feel like mine.

That sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night convinced someone has switched my child while I was sleeping .

"I wanted to connect with other mothers," I say instead.

"That's wonderful. Connection is so important during this time." Jessica turns to the blonde woman. "Audrey, how was your week?"

Audrey launches into a story about her three-week-old son's feeding schedule while I let my attention drift.

The room has no windows, just fluorescent lights that make everyone look sickly.

There's a motivational poster on the wall that says "You're Stronger Than You Think" in swirly script over a photo of a mountain sunset.

I hate inspirational posters. When my mom was dying, the hospital was full of them. Hope. Strength. Faith. Pretty words that meant nothing when your mother is disappearing one chemo treatment at a time.

"Claire?" Jessica's voice snaps me back to the circle. "Would you like to share anything about your experience so far?"

I realize I've missed most of the conversation. The other women are looking at me expectantly, and I scramble to think of something normal to say.

"It's hard," I begin slowly. "Harder than I expected. I thought I'd feel more ... connected to her by now."

The redhead in scrubs nods. "That's totally normal. It took me weeks to bond with my first."

"How many do you have?" I ask.

"Three. This is my third maternity leave in six years." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I keep thinking I'll figure it out eventually. "

Three kids and she still looks as lost as I feel. Somehow this is both comforting and terrifying.

Jessica leans forward. "Claire, what does 'connected' mean to you?"

I think about Eva's dark eyes, the way they seem to look through me instead of at me. About the yellow onesie with bumblebees that I didn't put on her. About the way she feels too heavy and too light in my arms at the same time.

"I guess I expected to feel like she was mine," I say quietly.

The room goes silent. Even the air conditioning seems to pause.

"Of course she's yours," Audrey says with a nervous laugh. "You carried her for nine months."

But that's the thing. The pregnancy feels like something that happened to someone else. Like a story I heard secondhand. I remember the doctor visits, the ultrasounds, the way my body changed. But it all feels distant now, like watching a movie of my own life.

"I know she's mine," I say quickly. "I just mean ... the connection. The feeling."

Jessica nods sympathetically. "Bonding difficulties are more common than people think. How long did you labor?"

"Forty hours. Then an emergency c-section."

"That's traumatic. Your body and mind are still processing that experience."

The woman in the Cal State sweatshirt speaks up. "I had a c-section too. It felt like they just cut her out of me and handed me a stranger. Like, wait, that's supposed to be my baby?"

Yes. Exactly like that. I want to reach across the circle and hug her.

Another woman starts talking about panic attacks, how she can't sleep because she's convinced something terrible will happen to her son. The group murmurs sympathetically, offering gentle advice about breathing exercises and therapy.

But the pale woman across from me mutters something under her breath. Something that sounds like, "That's not panic. That's knowing something isn't right."

Everyone pretends not to hear her. But I catch it. Our eyes meet across the circle and she gives me the slightest nod, like we share a secret.

"It gets better," Audrey adds. "One day you'll look at her and just know. Like, oh, there you are. I've been waiting for you."

I nod because it's what they expect, but I wonder if that moment will ever come. If one morning I'll wake up and Eva will feel like mine instead of like a beautiful, demanding stranger who happened to emerge from my body.

Jessica checks her watch. "We have time for one more share. Anyone have something they'd like to discuss?"

The redhead raises her hand. "This might sound crazy, but does anyone else ever look at their baby and think they look different? Like, not just day to day changes, but really different?"

My stomach clenches. "What do you mean?"

"Like, my son has blue eyes now, but I swear they were brown in the hospital. And his hair seems darker. Everyone says I'm imagining it, but I know what I saw."

"Babies change so much in the first few months," Jessica says gently. "Eye color, hair color, even facial features can shift as they develop."

But I'm not listening to Jessica anymore. I'm thinking about Eva's eyes getting darker instead of lighter. About the way her weight feels different in my arms. About the bumblebee onesie.

"My daughter was wearing different clothes when my husband brought her to me yesterday," I say before I can stop myself. "I put her down in one outfit and she was wearing something else when I found her."