My Mom Called Asking When I Was Coming Back for the Baby Until I Realized Mine Was Already With Me

eyes.

Dark. Wide. Unfocused from sleep. She stared at me for one disoriented second, then her face crumpled. The cry was thin and broken, more exhausted than loud.

My mother made a wounded sound.

Every rational part of me knew I should not pick her up. This child was part of an active scene. But she was a baby. And she was crying. Those were the only continue reading …