My parents kicked me out one day after my C-section—with my newborn in my arms. Then my husband pulled up, looked at my face, and made one phone call that changed everything.

That first night was harder than the hospital. In the hospital, at least, there had been call buttons and nurses and the comfort of expertise nearby. In her childhood bedroom there was only Wendy, a newborn, a fresh incision, and the muffled sense that the house resented being inconvenienced.

Paige struggled to latch. Wendy tried every position the lactation consultant had suggested, then half-forgot the instructions because pain made memory slippery. Every diaper change required a careful roll to the side, a slow stand, a pause for nausea, then a shuffle to the dresser where supplies had been stacked too high because Suzanne thought neatness mattered more than reach. Sweat dampened the back of Wendy’s shirt. Her hair stuck to her neck. Her body felt split between tenderness for Paige and fury at its own limitations.

At two in the morning Paige cried the raw thin cry of brand-new babies discovering hunger and discomfort as separate things. Wendy lifted her with shaking arms and sat at the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the burn in her abdomen. Somewhere downstairs a floorboard creaked. A toilet flushed. No one came up.

Not that Wendy had called.