Page 6 of The Other Mother

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T he morning sun is already merciless by eight AM, turning our back patio into a furnace that makes me dizzy just looking at it through the sliding glass door.

But I need to be outside. Need to do something with my hands that isn't changing diapers or doing laundry or staring at Eva while she sleeps.

I settle her bouncy seat in the shade of the patio umbrella and drag the hose over to the raised planter boxes Adam built before Eva was born.

Back when we thought having a baby would be like the Instagram posts I used to scroll through during my lunch breaks in Newport Beach.

Peaceful moments in sun-drenched gardens, beautiful children playing quietly while their mothers tended to thriving vegetables and herbs .

The reality is that my tomato plants are dying.

I planted them right before Eva was born. Cherry tomatoes that were supposed to be foolproof, according to the woman at the garden center. Perfect for beginners, she said. Practically grow themselves in this climate.

Now they're brown and withered, the leaves curling inward like they're trying to protect themselves from something. I water them anyway, watching the dry soil drink up the moisture desperately. Too little, too late. Story of my life lately.

"We used to have a garden," I tell Eva, even though she's staring at the umbrella with the intense focus of a newborn. "Back in Irvine. Just a little balcony with herbs and succulents. Everything grew so easily there.”

The memory feels like it belongs to someone else. That version of myself who could keep plants alive, who had opinions about which basil variety to grow, who spent Saturday mornings at the farmers market choosing heirloom tomatoes because I had the luxury of caring about such things.

Eva starts fussing, the small sounds that mean she's getting hungry. My breasts respond before my brain does, the familiar tingle and ache that signals letdown. I scoop her up and carry her back inside, leaving the dying tomatoes to face the desert sun alone.

The nursery is cooler but still warm, the blackout curtains doing their best to keep out the relentless light.

I settle into the glider and lift my shirt, wincing as Eva latches on.

Six weeks in and nursing still hurts. Not the toe-curling agony of those first days, but a constant soreness that makes me dread feeding time.

The lactation consultant at the hospital said it would get easier. That by now we should have found our rhythm, Eva and I. But everything about feeding her feels like a negotiation I'm losing. She pulls and tugs like she's frustrated with what I'm offering, like she's expecting something different.

I scroll through my phone with my free hand, reading articles about proper latch and nipple pain and oversupply issues. Everything suggests the problem is me. My technique, my anatomy, my inability to relax and let my body do what it's supposed to do naturally .

Twenty minutes later, Eva falls asleep at my breast, her tiny fist curled against my skin. I should enjoy these moments, I know. The bonding, the closeness, the way she fits perfectly in my arms. But all I feel is relief that it's over.

I transfer her to the crib carefully, holding my breath until I'm sure she's settled. Then I hook myself up to the breast pump in the living room, the mechanical sucking sound filling the quiet house like some kind of domestic torture device.

The pump is supposed to be hospital-grade, top of the line, designed to be as gentle as a baby's mouth. But it feels nothing like Eva's nursing. It's aggressive and rhythmic and somehow degrading, turning my body into a machine that produces liquid for another machine to process.

I watch the bottles fill with milk that looks thin and watery compared to the rich cream I remember from those first few days. Everything about my body feels wrong lately. Like it's performing functions for someone else's baby, going through the motions without understanding why .

Fifteen minutes of pumping yields barely two ounces.

I label the bottles with today's date and time, adding them to the neat rows in the refrigerator.

Insurance against the future, Adam calls it.

In case something happens to me, in case Eva needs to take bottles, in case we need to leave her with someone else for more than a few hours.

But we don't leave her with anyone. We don't go anywhere that requires more than an hour away from home. Our life has shrunk to the size of this house, this routine, this endless cycle of feeding and sleeping and changing and worrying.

I try to nap while Eva sleeps, but the afternoon heat makes the house feel like an oven even with the air conditioning running constantly.

The electric bill is going to be astronomical, but Adam says not to worry about it.

Easy for him to say when he's in air-conditioned offices all day, meeting with clients who pay premium prices for sustainable luxury homes.

By the time he gets home at six, I feel like I've been awake for days even though Eva actually let me sleep for two hours this afternoon. My nipples are raw and my back aches from hunching over the pump, and I can't remember if I brushed my teeth today.

"How was your day?" Adam asks, loosening his tie and opening a beer from the refrigerator.

I want to tell him about eating too much and about how nursing still hurts, about the way Eva looked at me during her afternoon feeding like she was disappointed with what I had to offer.

Instead I say, "Fine. Eva was good.”

Because that's what he wants to hear. That everything is under control, that I'm managing, that the decision to move here and start this new life was the right one.

Dinner is leftover Chinese food that tastes like cardboard and regret.

Adam picks at his orange chicken while scrolling through emails on his phone, the blue light casting shadows across his face.

He's showered and changed into his weekend uniform of khaki shorts and a polo shirt that makes him look like every other suburban dad in America .

I push lo mein around my plate and work up the courage to bring up the blanket again.

"I've been thinking about that blanket," I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

Adam doesn't look up from his phone. "What blanket?"

"The one with the G. Matthews tag. The pink one."

He glances at me briefly, then back at his screen. "What about it?"

"The stain looked old. Permanent. And the name tag was handwritten, not printed. Someone took time to mark it specifically for a baby whose name started with G."

Adam finally puts his phone down with an exaggerated sigh. "Claire. You're spiraling."

The word hits me like a slap. Spiraling. Like I'm some hysterical woman who can't handle the stress of new motherhood. Like my concerns are symptoms of a disorder instead of legitimate questions about my own child.

"I'm not spiraling. I'm observing."

"You're reading into everything." He takes a drink of beer, his third tonight. "Those support groups are filled with first-time moms who haven't slept in weeks. You're all feeding off each other's anxiety."

I think about Mara's hollow eyes, the certainty in her voice. About the redhead talking about her baby's changing features. About how none of them seemed surprised when I mentioned the clothing changes .

"What if I'm not imagining things?"

Adam laughs, but it sounds forced. Too loud for our quiet dining room with its open floor plan and high ceilings that make every sound echo. "Then talk to your OB. Get something to take the edge off. You're not sleeping, Claire. That's all this is."

He's already reaching for his phone before I can respond, the conversation dismissed as easily as my concerns. He has the doctor’s number and I know that he’s the type to prescribe whatever will make me easier to manage.

In Orange County, half my friends were on something.

Anxiety medication disguised as self-care, antidepressants passed around like vitamins at book club meetings.

"I don't need medication. I need answers."

But Adam has already opened his email again, his attention span is exhausted when it comes to my problems. Behind him, the kitchen island is littered with baby bottles and burp cloths and the constant detritus of caring for someone who can't care for themselves.

The life we moved here to embrace feels more like a trap every day.

Eva starts crying at eleven PM, right when Adam and I are getting ready for bed. Her cries are different tonight. Sharper. More insistent. Like she's in actual pain instead of just expressing the general dissatisfaction that seems to define her existence.

I lift her from the bassinet, and she's warm against my chest. Too warm. Her little body trembles with each sob, and nothing I do seems to help. I try feeding her, but she refuses. I try rocking her, walking her, changing her diaper. Nothing works.

Adam rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head. "Can you take her to the living room? I have that site meeting at seven."

Of course he does. There's always something. Some meeting or call or project that requires him to be well-rested while I stumble through another sleepless night like a zombie.

I carry Eva to the living room and settle into the glider that's become my second bed.

The house is dark except for the small lamp beside the chair, casting everything in amber shadows.

Outside, the desert is silent in that absolute way that only exists in places where civilization is still negotiating with wilderness.