Theo fell asleep at 1:10 p.m.
I remember because I had begun measuring life in ninety-minute opportunities.
I put him safely in the bassinet.
Closed the curtains.
Lay down.
At 1:32, Marcia knocked.
I ignored.
At 1:34, she entered.
“Alessandra.”
I opened one eye.
“What?”
“Groceries are being delivered.”
“Okay.”
“You need to put them away.”
“I’ll do it later.”
“Cold food.”
“Can you?”
Silence.
Then:
“I am here to guide, not replace you.”
I sat up.
The room moved.
I waited.
She watched.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
That was the word I kept giving everybody.
Yes.
The groceries could have remained outside two more minutes.
They could have been delivered into the kitchen.
Marcia could have put them away.
Instead I walked downstairs.
Slowly.
Theo woke while I was unpacking milk.
Cried.
Marcia stood beside the island.
“Finish first.”
I looked at her.
“He’s crying.”
“Babies cry.”
I went to him anyway.
She made a sound with her tongue.
That became another pattern.
Every time I responded to Theo, Marcia evaluated it.
Too fast.
Too slow.
Feeding again?
Holding too much.
Putting him down too soon.
The comments contradicted one another.
That was the point.
There was no correct answer except accepting that she knew better.
