There's a certain quiet that blankets the house when the baby finally sleeps.
I'm on the edge of the bed, hair undone, shirt slightly damp from breastfeeding, one hand resting on my lap while the other stays pressed over my heart like i'm trying to calm it.
Because sometimes, even now, I still can't believe she's here.
Celestine Andrea Gutierrez.
My daughter.
My baby.
She's sleeping soundly in the crib just a few steps away, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath that pale pink blanket Yaya Minda sewed by hand.
Her eyelashes are impossibly long.
Her lips slightly parted.
Her fingers twitching now and then like she's dreaming something, maybe something good.
And me? I'm somewhere between exhausted and overwhelmed, floating between the ache in my back, the sting in my chest, and this heavy, heavy love that never seems to let up.
Motherhood is… relentless. Beautiful. Brutal.
I didn't know it would feel like this.
Didn't know i would cry over spilled milk, literally or stare at the clock at 3AM wondering if i'm doing any of this right.
I didn't know my body would change so much.
That i'd forget what day it is, or when i last washed my hair, or what silence used to sound like before every second became a countdown to her next cry.
But i also didn't know how complete she'd make me feel.
I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, stand, and slowly walk to her crib.
I always end up here. Just… watching her.
Even if it's been hours since she fell asleep. Even if my body is screaming for rest.
I lean over slightly, hand cupping her cheek.
"You're so strong," I whisper. "You have no idea."
Her mouth puckers in her sleep, like she heard me.
There were nights too many when i'd cry quietly while holding her.
When the milk wouldn't come in fast enough, or when she wouldn't latch, or when i'd look in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
Hair tied in a messy knot, dark circles under my eyes, a body that still feels foreign no matter how many months have passed since the delivery.
And yet she'd look up at me with those eyes like i was the safest place in the world.
Like i was doing something right.
"Anak," Yaya Minda's voice is soft behind me. She's holding a glass of water and a clean towel. "You haven't eaten."
"I'll eat later," I say, my eyes still on Celestine. "She just fell asleep."
"You say that every time," she says, setting the glass down beside the bed. "Pero pag ikaw ang bumagsak, sino ang mag-aalaga sa kanya?"
I exhale slowly, turning toward her.
"I just… I don't want to miss anything, Yaya."
She smiles gently. "You won't. You are not alone, Atasha. You're here. Everyday, Every night. You're doing everything. You don't need to prove anything."
But maybe i still feel like i do.
Maybe a part of me is still trying to prove i can do this alone.
That i can be her mother and her father, her shield and her home, her everything.
Even on days when i feel like nothing.
Even on days when the tears come before the sun even rises.
That afternoon, I lie on the couch with Celestine sleeping on my chest, her little fingers clutching the neckline of my shirt.
Her head is tucked under my chin, and her breath is warm against my skin.
The soft lull of cartoons is playing in the background, but neither of us is really watching.
My phone buzzes from the side table. I don't move.
I don't want to.
Because this, this moment is one i don't want to blink and miss.
Her skin is so soft.
Her heartbeat so steady.
I close my eyes and let my palm rest over her back, feeling every small inhale and exhale.
She's heavier now.
Not the tiny infant i first held in that hospital room.
She's grown.
Eating solids.
Teething.
Crawling faster than i can catch her sometimes.
Laughing with this rasp in her voice that sounds nothing like me but everything like home.
Then, suddenly—soft, small, certain—I feel her shift.
Her head lifts.
I open my eyes just in time to see her looking at me.
"Ma…" she whispers.
And my heart stutters.
"Mama," she says again, clearer this time.
Everything in me stops.
I sit up slowly, hands holding her tiny frame, searching her face.
"What did you say?" my voice cracks.
She giggles. "Mama."
Tears blur my vision before i can even stop them.
"Oh, baby…" I pull her into me, kissing her temple, her cheeks, her soft wisps of hair. "Say it again. Please say it again."
"Mama," she repeats, this time like she knows what it means.
Like she's always known.
I sob, full-bodied and trembling, clutching her like the word might slip if i don't hold her tight enough.
She called me Mama.
I've been hers since the beginning, but hearing her name me, claim me, breaks something inside me in the most beautiful way.
When Yaya Minda walks in a few minutes later, she finds me still crying, still whispering thank yous into Celestine's hair as my daughter babbles the same word again and again.
"Mama."
I barely sleep that night.
Not from exhaustion this time, but from the weight of joy.
From the sound of her voice echoing in my chest like a song i've been waiting to hear all my life.
-
The days blur again.
Celestine is walking now, well, wobbling.
She holds onto furniture with one hand and waves at shadows on the wall with the other.
Her curiosity is endless, her laughter contagious, and her stubbornness… well, clearly from me.
There are still nights i cry into a pillow when she won't stop crying, or mornings when i feel like i'm failing because i gave her sweet biscuits too early or let her fall asleep on my chest again when i promised i wouldn't.
Motherhood doesn't come with a manual.
Only moments.
Like this one—
Celestine crawls onto my lap while i'm sorting laundry on the floor.
Her hair is a mess, her cheeks flushed from playing, and her mouth slightly sticky from the yogurt she tried feeding herself.
She rests her head against my chest.
No words. No demands.
Just that quiet trust of a child who knows she's safe.
I hold her close.
Close enough to feel her heartbeat.
Close enough to forget, just for a while, how tired i am.
-
There's no grand celebration today.
No balloons.
No guests.
Just the three of us, me, Celestine, and Yaya Minda—sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by toys and crumbs and mismatched socks.
She's dancing to the tune of an old nursery rhyme, clapping her hands with pride.
"Look at you," I say, laughing through the tears i didn't expect. "You're growing up so fast."
Too fast.
And yet not fast enough for me to forget the nights i held her while rocking back and forth, whispering lullabies i made up on the spot. Or the mornings i'd trace the curve of her nose while she slept, memorizing every detail in fear that i'd forget.
"I don't want to miss anything," I whisper again, mostly to myself.
"You won't," Yaya Minda says gently from behind. "Because you're here."
And she's right.
I'm here.
I'm still here.
For every first step.
Every fall.
Every whisper of Mama that still makes my heart flutter.
For every scraped knee and bedtime story. For every laugh.
Every tear.
I'm here.
And no matter how hard the days get… I always will be.