The first night in the apartment, Theo woke seven times.
I almost called Marcia just to tell her.
Then laughed at myself.
My doula, Hannah, arrived at ten.
I fed Theo.
She took him for burping, diapering, and settling while I slept.
At one-thirty, she brought him back.
Feed.
Then sleep.
At four.
Again.
At seven-thirty, I woke because sunlight reached the curtains.
No one opened them.
No one told me to get up.
I cried.
Hannah looked concerned.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
That was the point.
Nothing happened because I slept until my body woke.
No kitchen test.
No groceries.
No dinner proof.
My hemoglobin improved gradually.
Eight-point-two.
Then nine-point-one.
Then ten-point-three.
Oral iron.
Food.
Hydration.
Time.
No miracle transfusion.
No exotic diagnosis.
By six weeks postpartum, dizziness was much better.
By eight, I could take Theo for a twenty-minute walk without feeling hollow.
Recovery looked boring.
I learned to love boring.
