Chapter 12: The Lullaby in the Dark
The monitor finally showed a solid green light and no sound at all, and I didn't trust it at first. I sat on the living room floor with my back against the couch because the couch felt too soft to keep me awake. The apartment was dark except for the lamp in the corner I'd turned down low. The heat ticked in the vents. Ethan sat across from me with his legs stretched out, his white shirt wrinkled from the day before, his sleeves still pushed up. We'd put the baby down twenty minutes earlier after the last feeding, and neither of us had moved since.
He'd been home when I got back from the kitchen with the bottle. He hadn't said much when he walked in. He'd just looked at me and at the bassinet and nodded like he understood he was late. Again.
I could hear him breathing. Slow. Tired. He stared at the monitor light like if he looked away it would start crying.
"I keep thinking about that kitchen," he said after a while. His voice was low. "The way my mom was just standing there."
I didn't answer right away. I let the pause sit. My neck ached from holding the baby all day.
He rubbed his hands together. "When I was seventeen, I got into State. And she wanted me to go to the community college here, live at home. Save money, she said. But really she just didn't want me to leave."
I looked at him. He wasn't looking back at me. He was looking at the dark window.
"I picked State. For you, even though I didn't know you yet. I just wanted to go," he said. "She didn't talk to me for three weeks. Not a word at dinner. She'd make a plate and leave it on the counter and walk out. My dad would just say, give her time."
I felt my chest tighten. I remembered Diane in that doorway, that same flat, stern face.
"I thought if I just did what she wanted, she'd come back," he said. His jaw moved but he didn't clench it. "She did. Eventually. But I learned that if I made her mad, she could just disappear. So I stopped making her mad."
He finally glanced at me. His eyes were tired and wet but he wasn't crying. He was waiting to see if I'd jump in and tell him it was okay or tell him what to do.
I didn't fix it. I breathed and kept my hands in my lap.
"That sounds lonely," I said.
He nodded once, small. "Yeah."
The baby made a tiny noise on the monitor, a sigh, and then went quiet again. We both froze and then relaxed.
"I'm scared all the time now," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Not just about his fever. About being a mom. If I tell Diane no, I hear this voice in my head that says I'm being difficult. That I'm a bad mom for keeping him away from his grandmother. That I'm the reason there's tension."
Ethan shifted so he was closer, his shoulder near my knee. He didn't reach for me, just stayed there.
"I think if I set a boundary, everyone will think I'm protecting the baby wrong," I said. "And they'll be right. That I'm making it harder for him."
"You're not," he said quietly.
I shook my head. "I know you're supposed to say that. But I still feel it. When she texts about coming over or brings stuff we said we didn't need, I feel guilty for being annoyed. Because maybe she's just trying to help and I'm being a bitch about it."
He didn't argue. He just listened. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the fridge humming in the kitchen.
"I don't want him to grow up thinking love means you have to make someone else comfortable to keep them near," I said. "But I'm doing that too. With you. With her."
Ethan leaned his head back against the couch. "I don't want that for him either."
We sat there another minute. The lamp threw a warm circle on the ceiling.
"So what do we do before Sunday?" I asked.
He sat up a little. "I need to tell her something clear. Not vague. Not I'll try."
"What?" I asked.
He thought, his hands clasped again like they were that morning in her kitchen. "That the apartment is our place. She can't just drop by. She needs to ask and we need to say yes first. And if we say not today, that's it."
I felt a flicker in my stomach, fear and relief at the same time. "Can you say it like that? Without making it about me being the reason?"
"Yeah," he said. "It's my line. I'll tell her before Sunday. I'll call her tomorrow, not text. So she can't just show up and pretend she didn't see it."
I nodded. "Before Sunday. Not at the door when we're already there."
May you like
"Before Sunday," he repeated. He looked at me and held it. "I will."
I didn't say I forgive you. I didn't say everything was fine. I just let his words sit in the quiet room with the green light still glowing. The baby slept. We stayed on the floor, two people awake in the dark, with one concrete thing we had agreed to do and had not done yet.
