Page 2 of Something Like Shelter

I crossed back toward the glider as the first golden rays of light flirted across the floorboards, highlighting dust that had settled in places I’d been too distracted to notice, let alone clean.

I made a mental note that was likely going to be buried under the next diaper change, the toppling tower of laundry, and my near-empty fridge that needed stocking.

“Is today the day we venture out of the house?” I asked the baby who was still looking up at me with wide eyes, despite being awake nearly the whole night.

All those real-life things felt suspended. They used to shape my former life: my car, the gym, work, errands, outings with friends and family.

Outside, the world continued on without me at its usual breakneck pace.

Inside, even my thoughts seemed to move differently—softer, slower, everything becoming gentler.

Adelaide grumbled, prompting me to start rocking the glider.

Little by little, her small breaths evened out into that delicate, hypnotic rhythm that I’d come to measure my whole existence by.

Her little eyelids drooped, closed, then stayed that way.

I sat there, too worried to move, tired beyond language, but heart unbearably full.

And the phrase crossed my mind again.

It’s going to be okay.

This hadn’t been the future I’d painstakingly laid out for myself in my five-year plan.

This was supposed to follow a very precise, carefully laid-out schedule. I had footnotes and contingency plans.

None of them included two pink lines without a ring on my finger, without a partner to share the labor of parenthood.

I was a bit scared to move.

But I really, really wanted some tea.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, glancing around the room as the morning light brightened even the darkest corners.

My brother and father had painstakingly painted the floral mural in muted pinks and yellows on the wall behind the crib. My mother had brought the soft linen bedding all the way from France. My aunts, uncles, and cousins had built, bought, or restored all of the furniture, the toys, the blankets, and the clothing tucked into the closet.

I wasn’t alone, not really.

Everyone was just a call away.

What can I say other than that my own stubborn hyper-independence was what had me not reaching for my phone to ask one of the many members of my inner circle (who’d offered a dozen times) to go to the store for me.

Besides, there was no reason to bother anyone else. Even if I couldn’t manage to get myself bathed and dressed and out the door, there was always grocery delivery to fall back on.

Was that the healthiest idea, mentally? Probably not. I was so isolated already. The only times I’d left the house since Adelaide came was to take her to her pediatrician. Though I did have my postpartum visit scheduled in a few days to look forward to. Oh, joy.

But the outside world would come for me soon enough. I wasn’t in a big rush to get back out there.

Was I probably going to get bruised apples and wilted lettuce if I had it shopped for me? Sure. But I honestly barely even tasted my food these days. I caught myself shoveling the last of my shredded cheese into my mouth the night before for dinner like some kind of animal.

I thought about grabbing my phone, of opening an app, of browsing through the endless options of foods to add to a cart.

But I wasn’t sure I could pay that mental tax yet.

So I leaned back, let my eyes drift closed.

For just a moment, everything was still.