Noah fussed at first. I panicked immediately.
“I can’t do it,” I whispered.
“You are doing it,” Evelyn said.
“He’s crying.”
“He’s four weeks old. Crying is one of his main forms of communication.”
Melissa laughed softly. “She’s right.”
Noah’s tiny fingers opened against my hospital gown. His face wrinkled with frustration, then settled. The weight of him against me was barely more than a loaf of bread, yet it anchored me to the world.
I looked down at him and felt the fear return, deep and cold.
“What happens when I go home?” I asked.
Nobody answered too quickly. I appreciated that.
Richard turned from the window. “You and Noah come home with us for a while.”
I looked up. “Uncle Richard—”
“No debate tonight.”
“I can’t just move in.”
“It’s not moving in. It’s recovering.”
“I have rent. I have Noah’s things. I have work. I have—”
