And five days ago, I had also understood that there are pains nobody prepares you for. Not the sharp, searing ache that cuts across your abdomen every time you try to stand. Not the deep bone-tired exhaustion that makes your hands shake when you lift a kettle. Not even the helpless terror of checking a newborn’s breathing every six minutes because he came ten days early and the pediatrician used the phrase “still vulnerable” in that careful, professional tone that means don’t panic, but absolutely panic.
The worst pain was quieter than all of that.
It was doing it alone.
My son slept in the bassinet beside the sofa, swaddled tightly, one tiny fist pressed near his cheek as if he’d fallen asleep mid-argument with the world. His skin still had that translucent newborn look, pink and soft and almost unreal. I had been calling him Leo ever since he arrived screaming and furious in a bright operating room that smelled like antiseptic and fear. I planned to write Leo Michael Collins on the birth certificate once he was a little stronger, once I could breathe without feeling like life was standing on my chest.