The woman quickly stepped out of the hospital and headed towards her car.
The automatic doors slid shut behind her with a hollow swish, shutting off the fluorescent sterility of the maternity ward. The air outside was cool with late spring chill, but she hardly felt it. Her arms enfolded the newborn, wrapped tightly in a pale blue blanket, his small breathing barely louder than the dull thud of her own heart.
She got to her car and unlocked it with a soft click. Her fingers shook as she struggled with the keys before she finally succeeded in turning the ignition over. It revved, smooth and machine-like—aloof. She eased onto the empty road, the tires crunching gently over the blacktop as city lights swirled past.
The ride home was a blur. She didn't recall the turns. She didn't recall the radio or the thrum of traffic. Only the heaviness of the baby in the car seat next to her and the stabbing pressure gathering in her chest, as if something was trying to break free—grief, perhaps. Or fear. Or denial.
She arrived at her villa soon after and went outside.
The marble steps rang out under her feet as she carried the baby indoors. Her home was a towering penthouse, elegant and roomy, but this evening it seemed rather like a mausoleum. Too big. Too still.
She moved to the living room, her footsteps slow, robotic, and sat down on the sofa. Carefully, almost religiously, she set the newborn down beside her.
The penthouse was unnaturally quiet—too quiet. City lights streamed in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, ghostly streaks on the polished hardwood floor. From outside, the soft chirring of crickets barely filled the silence.
She gazed at the baby. He seemed calm for a moment, eyes shut, his small chest rising and falling.
Then abruptly—he wailed.
Not a whimper. A loud, piercing wail that cut through the silence like a knife. She jumped, surprised. Then she put her hand on her forehead and cursed under her breath, "Oh God, what do I do now?"
She did everything.
She picked him up, rocked him, murmured softly as she moved barefoot over the hardwood floor, the soles of her feet burning slightly with each step. She attempted to feed him, felt his diaper, held him tightly, loosely, adjusted her rhythm. She sang—soft, tuneless shards of lullabies she had barely recalled from her own past.
But the wails merely intensified.
Please. please, stop. Just stop. I don't know what you want. I've fed you. I changed you. I'm trying, okay?"
Her voice broke, thick with desperation.
The baby didn't care. His cries screamed deeper, unrelenting, until they were the only sound on earth.
She clamped her lips together, eyes wide and shaking with rage. Her breathing turned sharp. Her hands trembled.
And then, she snapped.
"What do you want from me?!" she yelled. "I'm not your mother!"
The baby startled in her arms, reacting to the yelling, and for an instant—just an instant—the wails stopped. He stared up at her with wide, wet eyes, frightened and bewildered.
She stood still.
The room dropped away. The lights, the windows, the city—everything gone. Just her and the baby and the sound of her own raw breathing.
Realization hit her like a slap.
She stared at the baby, guilt rising fast and cold through her body like a tide of ice water. Her voice dropped to a whisper, brittle and broken.
"I'm not your mom…"
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the plush rug, curling around the baby protectively. Her arms tightened, trembling as she pressed him to her chest.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry."
Tears fell freely now, splashing onto the baby's blanket. Her fingers clutched at him like she was afraid he might vanish.
"I'm not his mom," she whispered again, but even as she said it, the words felt wrong—like a lie told too many times.
The baby blinked up at her, hiccuping gently between dying cries. His eyes were blank, unaware. He had no concept of what she was, or what she wasn't. To him, she was warm. She was holding him. She was present.
"Why does he still look at me like I can cure everything?" she breathed. Her chest constricted, a pang of guilt, fear, and helplessness wrapped at her center.
The phone vibrated on the coffee table.
She looked at it. Her friend's message illuminated the screen:
"How's the baby? Everything okay?"
She settled back onto the sofa, eyes fixed on the message. The blue light of the screen spread over her, illuminating her face in a dreamlike quality. The baby rested beside her now, peaceful but still eyeing her.
Her thumbs were poised over the keyboard.
How could she reply?
How could she tell him that everything was fine, when she didn't even know who she was anymore—when the title "mother" was a role she didn't fit?
She wrote: "Everything's okay."
Her chest tightened the moment she sent it.
"Why am I doing this?" she thought. "I feel so awful…"
She set the phone aside with a deep sigh. She glanced at the baby, at the ceiling, at the door.
Then, seemingly driven by instinct, she stood up.
She laid the baby gently back onto the couch, tucking the blanket over him more carefully than she thought she could.
"Let's take a breath of fresh air," she murmured to herself rather than to him.
She strode to the tall glass windows, unhooked them, and pushed them open.
Cold night air slapped at her skin. It held within it a strange quiet.
She looked up.
No stars this night. Only clouds. And one lone full moon—big, pale, staring. It seemed nearly sorrowful, as if it cried alone in the sky.
And then, like a crashing wave through her mind, a memory came back. Vivid. Raw. Nine months old