Marcia lived twenty minutes away.
She did not need to stay.
She arrived with two suitcases on Day Five.
“Only until Alessandra is stronger.”
I stared.
Colin smiled.
“It’ll help.”
I asked:
“Help how?”
“Mom can cook.”
Marcia said:
“Among other things.”
The first night she made soup.
Washed dishes.
Held Theo while I showered.
I thanked her.
That mattered.
She was helpful at first.
Control rarely begins by announcing itself.
Day Six:
She opened the bedroom curtains at eight.
“Morning.”
I had slept ninety minutes.
“Please close them.”
“The baby needs daylight rhythms.”
“The baby is asleep.”
“So are you.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“That is the problem.”
Day Seven:
I put laundry into a basket.
Marcia removed it.
“You should start moving.”
“My doctor said no heavy lifting.”
“Laundry isn’t heavy.”
The basket was.
Day Eight:
She cooked dinner.
Then asked me to clear the table.
Fine.
Day Nine:
She told me I should make lunch.
“Why?”
“Because feeding your family is part of getting normal again.”
Day Ten:
I made breakfast.
Day Eleven:
Dinner.
Day Twelve:
She began leaving dirty pans.
Not every pan.
Enough.
I thought she forgot.
Then she watched me wash one.
“Good.”
That word.
As though I had completed a test.
Colin came home.
“Smells great.”
I told him:
“Your mom is making me cook.”
He kissed my forehead.
“She’s getting you back into routine.”
“I don’t want routine.”
“You’ve been in bed two weeks.”
I stared.
“I gave birth two weeks ago.”
“I know.”
His voice softened.
“Ali, Mom thinks too much bed rest makes recovery harder.”
“Is Mom my doctor?”
“No.”
Then:
“But she’s raised kids.”
There.
Medical advice had become one opinion among many.
