Page 38 of Daddy's Ring
Maeve's face scrunches. Makes that little huffing sound. Settles back into sleep against Naomi's shoulder like she belongs there.
My chest aches watching it. This should be Nia. Should be my best friend holding her daughter, should be her fielding questions about sleep schedules and developmental milestones and whether teething is supposed to make babies this miserable.
Instead it's me. Second choice. Backup plan. The person who promised to be there but never actually thought she'd have to follow through like this.
"Eat." Naomi settles into the reading chair near the crib, Maeve curled against her like she's done this a thousand times. Maybe she has—with Jordan, years ago, when he was this small and fragile. "I've got her."
I should argue. Should insist I'm fine managing both, that I don't need her taking time out of her life to babysit me through mine. But the pasta smells so good and my hands are shaking and I can't remember the last time someone told me to sit down and actually meant it.
So I sit. Fork through cream sauce and fresh basil, and for thirty seconds I let myself just exist in this moment without thinking about everything I'm failing at.
"How's the inventory going?" Naomi asks, voice low enough not to disturb Maeve.
I glance at the spreadsheet still open on the laptop. "It's going."
"That bad?"
"I don't know what half these categories mean." The admission feels like failure. "Nia had a system and I'm trying to follow it but everything's color-coded and cross-referenced and I keep thinking I'm updating the right column but then nothing balances and?—"
"Breathe." Naomi shifts Maeve slightly, settling her more securely. "You've been doing this for two weeks. You're not supposed to have it figured out yet."
Two weeks. Fourteen days since I sat in a hospital room and watched Nia stop breathing. Fourteen days of Maeve crying for her mom and me not knowing how to explain that she's gone. Fourteen days of running a business I have no training for while trying to figure out how to keep an eight-month-old alive and happy and developing properly.
I'm drowning. That's the truth of it. Drowning in responsibility and grief and this crushing weight of being not enough.
"The girl who was helping—Emma?" Naomi prompts. "She went back to school?"
"Yeah. She said she had to move back because she's taking some summer courses before the fall semester." Emma had been wonderful, actually. Knew the inventory system, knew the customers, could run the register and restock shelves while making it look effortless. But she was only here because Nia was sick, only staying through the end of spring and early summer because she felt obligated. Now she's gone and it's just me. "I should hire someone. I just—I don't know how. Like, do I post an ad? Interview people? Check references?"
"Yes to all of that." Naomi makes it sound simple. Makes everything sound simple in that way she has, like the world is just a series of manageable problems if you break them down far enough. "You write up a job description, post it online and in the window, interview the ones who seem competent."
I stab at a piece of chicken. "What if I'm a terrible judge of competence?"
"Then you call me and I'll sit in on interviews." She says it like it's obvious. Like of course she'd take time out of her life to help me hire a bookstore employee. "Zola, you're not doing this alone. Stop acting like you have to."
But I am alone. That's the problem. Nia's gone and she was the one who knew how to do this, how to run a business and raise a child and make it all look manageable. I'm just—I'm just stumbling through, hoping I don't break anything irreparably.
Maeve shifts against Naomi, little face pressing into her shoulder. Still asleep but restless, like even in dreams she's looking for someone I can't give her.
"She's been clingy," I hear myself say. "Ever since—she screams if I put her down. Just screams and screams until I pick her up again."
"She lost her mom." Naomi's voice is gentle. "She doesn't understand what happened, just that the person who was always there isn't anymore. You're her constant now. Her safe place."
Safe place. The words feel too big. Too important. I'm twenty-nine years old and I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never been anyone's safe place—I've barely been my own safe place. For years I ran from anything that felt like responsibility, from anything that might require me to actually stay and commit and be depended on.
And now I have this tiny human depending on me for everything and I don't know if I'm enough. If I'll ever be enough.
"What if I'm terrible at this?" The question comes out smaller than I intend. "What if I'm not—what if I can't be what she needs?"
Naomi looks at me over Maeve's curls, dark eyes steady and knowing. "You're already what she needs. You show up. You hold her when she cries. You feed her and change her and stay up all night making sure she's okay. That's what matters."
"Nia would be better at it."
"Nia isn't here." Not cruel. Just true. "And she chose you because she knew you'd figure it out. Knew you'd love Maeve enough to become whatever you needed to be."
My throat tightens. Can't argue with that because Nia did choose me, did put my name on all the paperwork despite everyone else in her life who might have been more qualified. Her sister who has three kids of her own. Her aunt who raised her. Anyone but me—the girl who ran from Philadelphia because commitment felt like suffocation.
And maybe that's the cruelest part. Not that Nia died, but that she left me with proof I was never as broken as I convincedmyself I was. Left me with a baby who needs me and a business that requires me to stay and suddenly all those excuses about not being built for this kind of life feel hollow.
