I couldn't even hold my own son. The way he turned his little mouth, rooting for milk, scraped against every raw nerve I had.
I felt useless.
I was getting worse than before.
Every night, after Oliver and Rhys had fallen asleep, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed. Hand clamped over my mouth, not daring to make a sound.
I wanted so desperately to get better. To be a normal mother. An ordinary wife. To do what I was supposed to do.
But I couldn't.
I spent my days drowning in oversized clothes, every inch of my body hidden, tucked away in the corner of the bedroom like something that didn't belong.
The look in Rhys's eyes grew more confused with each passing day, but he still reassured me. "There's no rush. Your health comes first."
The kinder he was, the more I hated myself.
The more I believed that nearly dying to give him a child had been worth it.
I forgot.
People change.
Or rather, exhaustion and pressure have a way of stripping a person down to who they really are.
That day, Rhys wasn't home.
Oliver woke up wailing.
I panicked. I tried to copy what I'd seen Rhys do, scooping him up into my arms.
He squirmed against me, and his head slammed straight into the wound on my chest.
The tears came instantly.
Every vein in my arms stood out as I clenched my jaw and lowered him gently back onto the bed. That was the moment Rhys walked in.
He took one look at the scene and erupted. "You can't even hold him? You won't even do that much?"
His voice was thick with disappointment.
"Just because you lost a breast, you think you can't be a mother anymore?"
"How much longer am I supposed to put up with this before you step up and take some responsibility?"
Shame and guilt crashed over me in waves, dragging me into a spiral of doubt.
Had I really been wrong all this time?
I was a mother. How could I neglect my own son like this?
But...
I wasn't only a mother.
I was also myself.
I could be a good mother.
I just needed a little time.
Just a little.
Because I wanted that little bit of time, I made a terrible decision.
During a follow-up appointment at the hospital, I met a girl who'd gotten pregnant out of wedlock, delivered a stillborn, and been abandoned.
Her name was Dahlia Voss.
The sight of her clutching that lifeless baby in the hospital corridor, sobbing with a desperation that seemed to swallow her whole, drove into my chest like a blade.
We shared something. We were both mothers. I couldn't just walk away.
I paid for the baby's cremation and brought her home with me.
At first, Rhys didn't agree to let Dahlia stay.
She grabbed the hem of his shirt, tears streaming down her face. "Please, sir, just give me a chance."
"I'll treat your baby like he's my own son. I swear."
Her face was drenched, her eyes wide and pitiful.
Rhys hesitated.
Right on cue, Oliver started crying.
Dahlia sprang up from the floor as if on instinct, stumbling toward the sound until she found him.
She pressed him close to her chest, murmuring softly, "Shh, shh, it's okay. I'm here. I'm right here."
Her cheeks were still streaked with tears, but a tender smile had already settled on her lips.
Rhys stared at her, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes.
I seized the moment. "You've been running yourself into the ground taking care of him alone."
"Dahlia just lost her baby and has nowhere to go. Helping her helps us too. Please."
And just like that, Dahlia stayed.
Later, I understood. What I'd seen in Rhys's eyes that day wasn't hesitation. It was admiration. It was the first stirring of something more.
After Dahlia moved in, she took care of both Oliver and Rhys with effortless devotion.
Oliver grew plump and rosy. The dark circles under Rhys's eyes faded, and he carried himself with a lightness I hadn't seen in months.
As for Dahlia, with Oliver to pour her energy into, she visibly emerged from the shadow of losing her own child.
