The second she noticed the diaper bag hanging off one shoulder and the exhaustion written all over my face, she hurried toward me. She didn’t ask a single question.

She wrapped one arm around me as carefully as she could without bumping my incision. “Oh, sweetheart.”
That was all. There was no lecture and no “I warned you”—just those two words.
Sometimes that’s enough to keep a person standing. Mom’s little ranch house hadn’t changed much since Dad passed away.
The same wind spinner turned lazily in the backyard. The same faded blue recliner sat beside the living room window where Dad used to read the Sunday paper.
Now it was covered with folded baby blankets. She’d been preparing for Emma’s first visit for weeks.
Neither of us imagined it would become our new home. That first week blurred together.
I fed Emma, changed diapers, took pain medication, and tried not to cry where Mom could see me. Then I slept for 45 minutes and repeated the cycle.