David and I learned quickly that a baby rewires everything—sleep, schedules, patience, identity. Lily cried like she had opinions about the universe, and sometimes, at three in the morning, I would sway in the dark kitchen with her pressed to my shoulder and feel the old anxiety creep in.
Not about money or status.
About becoming someone who could hurt her without meaning to.
That fear made me gentler. It made me pay attention.
Margaret visited more often, but now she asked first. She didn’t assume access. She brought groceries sometimes, or offered to fold laundry while I nursed Lily and watched cartoons with David. It would have been surreal if it hadn’t been so needed.
One afternoon, I found Margaret kneeling on the floor with Lily, making exaggerated faces while Lily blinked at her like she was assessing whether this woman was worthy of a smile.
Margaret looked up at me, breathless. “She’s judging me,” she whispered.
I laughed. “She gets that from me.”
Margaret’s smile softened. “Good,” she said. “She should.”
As Lily grew, we began creating new traditions. Not Thompson traditions, not Jensen traditions. Ours.
Sunday pancakes.
Backyard picnics.