Sophie’s POV
Two weeks later
The apartment looks different with Amelia in it. Larger somehow, all that space suddenly filled with tiny clothes and blankets and the weight of responsibility I'm not sure I can carry.
The nursery door stands open—Bellamy had prepared it while we were at the hospital, stocking essentials neither Adrian nor I thought to buy. Diapers arranged in neat rows. Formula cans lined up with military precision.
A mobile hanging above the crib that plays soft lullabies I don't remember purchasing. He's in the kitchen now, quiet footsteps in the background, a presence I'm learning to read by absence rather than intrusion.
Adrian sets the car seat down with the careful deliberation of someone handling a live grenade. His movements are precise, controlled, but I catch the slight tremor in his fingers as he releases the handle.
Amelia stirs inside her cocoon of blankets, face scrunching. A small whimper escapes her rosebud mouth. We both freeze—Adrian's hand hovering mid-air, my breath catching in my throat.
The whimper builds into a cry.
"Diaper," I say, though I have no idea where to start. The word comes out sharper than I intended, edged with panic I'm trying desperately to hide. "We should... She probably needs a diaper change."
We attempt it together. Adrian's hands shake as he fumbles with the tiny tabs, trying to remember the demonstration the nurse gave us before discharge.
Was it pull here first, or unfasten both sides simultaneously? I try to support Amelia's head the way the nurse demonstrated—one hand cradling the skull, the other supporting the tiny bottom—except the angle is wrong, my arms are wrong, everything is wrong. My body screams in protest.
The stitches between my legs pull with each movement, a sharp reminder of the emergency intervention that brought Amelia into the world.
Blood-soaked pads bunch uncomfortably beneath me. Cramping that steals my breath radiates through my abdomen.
The baby's neck lolls suddenly, head tilting at an angle that looks catastrophically dangerous.
My heart stops. "Adrian!"
Adrian jerks back like he's been burned, hands flying away from the diaper tabs. "I didn't—I wasn't—"
Amelia screams.
The sound cuts through me like a blade, primal and accusatory. ‘You're hurting me. You're doing it wrong. You're not my mother—you can't be, because mothers know what to do.’
I try again, fingers clumsy and uncooperative, adjusting my grip on Amelia's impossibly small body. Her legs kick, surprisingly strong for something so fragile. One tiny foot catches me in the ribs. Fresh pain blooms where my body is still healing.
"Here, let me—" Adrian reaches in again.
"No, I've got—" I shift, trying to maintain my hold while reaching for the clean diaper.
Our hands collide. Amelia's screaming intensifies, face turning an alarming shade of red. I feel tears burning behind my eyes but refuse to let them fall. I'm supposed to know how to do this.
Some maternal instinct should have kicked in by now, shouldn't it? Some biological programming that makes me competent instead of terrified?
Adrian hovers uselessly, reaching in and pulling back, reaching in and pulling back. Each aborted attempt makes my anxiety spike higher.
We're going to drop her. We're going to hurt her. We're going to prove every horrible thing the comments sections said about us—that we're too young, too reckless, too fundamentally broken to be parents.
Bellamy appears in the doorway. He doesn't ask permission, doesn't offer hollow reassurances. Just steps forward with the quiet confidence of someone who's navigated this particular crisis before.
“Here, little princess, just like that…” He lifts Amelia with practiced ease—one hand cradling her head with exactly the right amount of support, the other hand supporting her bottom at precisely the correct angle.
The crying stops almost immediately, cutting off mid-wail as if someone flipped a switch.
Amelia settles against Bellamy's chest, tiny fist curling into his shirt. He rocks gently, instinctive and natural, a father who's done this before.
“Such a good little one, aren’t you?” Bellamy knows the rhythm, the pressure, the specific sway that mimics a heartbeat and tells a baby she's safe.
I watch, relief and inadequacy flooding through me in equal measure. Grateful he stepped in before our incompetence caused real damage.
Ashamed that a stranger—well, not quite a stranger anymore, but someone who's only known Amelia for weeks—can soothe my daughter when I cannot.
Adrian's jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath the skin. He stares at Bellamy holding Amelia with an expression I can't quite read—fury, maybe, or defeat.
Something dark and dangerous that makes the air between them feel combustible. Then he turns away without a word, shoulders rigid with tension as he walks out of the nursery.
I stand frozen, arms still positioned for a baby who's no longer there. My body aches. My mind spins with everything I'm failing at. And somewhere deep in my chest, something that feels suspiciously like resentment begins to take root.
Resentment at Adrian for not knowing what to do either. Resentment at Bellamy for making it look so easy. Resentment at myself for being too proud to admit I have no idea how to be a mother.
That night, we stand across from each other in the nursery at eleven o'clock. Amelia screams between us, face scrunched and red, tiny fists flailing with surprising force.
My vision blurs with exhaustion—I haven't slept more than twenty consecutive minutes since we brought Amelia home. Every time I close my eyes, panic jolts me awake. What if the baby stops breathing? What if something's wrong and I don't notice?
Adrian looks hollowed out, defeated. Dark circles carve shadows beneath his eyes. His hair stands at odd angles from running his hands through it repeatedly. He stares at our daughter like she's a puzzle he can't solve, an equation with variables he doesn't understand.
"Should we try feeding her again?" My voice cracks. We've tried feeding her three times in the past hour. Amelia refused the bottle each time, turning her head away and screaming louder.
"I don't…" Adrian starts, then stops. Starts again. "Maybe if we…"
But he doesn't finish the sentence. Neither of us knows what comes after the "if."
Neither of us knows what to do. Neither can admit it—not to each other, not fully. Because admitting total incompetence means acknowledging we've made a catastrophic mistake. That we brought a helpless human being into the world without the first clue how to keep her alive.
The baby keeps crying. Each wail drills into my skull, into the exhausted spaces where rational thought used to live. The night stretches endlessly ahead—hours and hours of this, of failing, of trying and failing and trying again.
We weren't ready for this. For being parents. For the suffocating weight of responsibility that allows no escape, no pause, no room for error.
I think about the girl I was two weeks ago in the hospital, holding my newborn daughter for the first time. That girl believed love would be enough. That maternal instinct would guide her through the impossible moments.
That girl was an idiot.
But there's no going back now. No returning Amelia to some cosmic warehouse with an apologetic note: ‘Sorry, we're not qualified for this. Please reassign to someone competent.’
This is my life now. Our life.