It’s all true. Annie and I have a system. I figure out that if you rub her back counterclockwise twice, then pat up from her lower back to between her shoulder blades, those difficult burps will be worked out. She has a protein allergy. I notice the bumps on her skin and take her to the pediatrician Della chose, an Iranian woman named Dr. Mikhail. She is stern and gives me the stink eye the whole time.

“Most new mothers are nervous and hovering. You must have done this before.”

“I’m not her mother,” I say. “Should I hover more? I trust you, should I not trust you? Do you think I’m too trusting?” I walk to the table where she is examining Annie, and I pick her up. Dr. Mikhail gives me another searing look and takes the baby back from me and returns her to the table.

“My mistake. Maybe I should prescribe something for your mania.”

Annie has to be on special formula. When Kit gets home from the hospital, we all go to Target so we can pick some up. He grabs a pack of diapers, and I stop him. “I don’t like those,” I say. “They leak.” He stands back with a smile and lets me choose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him.

“Like what, Helena?” he asks. “Like I’m really impressed with you? I can’t help it.”

I am flustered. I drop the pack of diapers, and we both bend to pick it up. I concede, and we stand up at the same time; he clutches the diapers under his arm, his eyes never leaving my face. Then Annie starts to cry, and we both go to her. I do not concede. I elbow him out the way to take her out of her carseat. He’s grinning the whole time.

“Kit! What?”

He drops his head. “Nothing,” he says, looking at me through his lashes. “You’re just really good at this. I’m so thankful you’re here.”

I blush. I feel it creep hot, up my neck and to my cheeks.

“Ew, stop. Let’s go,” I tell him. At the register, two people tell me that my baby is beautiful, and I look great. Kit just keeps smiling.

Kit divides his time between Annie and Della. I get the in-between. I think about the old days a lot. When we drank cheap beer in dirty dive bars, and spoke excitedly about the days when we would be grown-ups. All the big plans, and they did not include your boyfriend getting another woman pregnant, or having a broken heart, or taking care of your best friend’s baby while she is in a coma. No one tells you that it hurts this much to be a grown-up. That people are so complicated they end up hurting each other to self preserve. I look at Annie, and I’m frightened for her already. I don’t want the world to get her. I hold her close and cry sometimes, my tears sprinkling the back of her onesie as she sleeps on my shoulder.

When Annie is a few weeks old I start leaving the house with her on a regular basis. We go on walks; we go to the market to buy diapers. I read all of Della’s books on how to stimulate her, what to expect from each week of development. I lose so much weight in those weeks that Kit starts bringing me cupcakes and cheesecakes. People in the store tell me I look fantastic for a new mother. How did I do it?

“I eat cheesecake and cupcakes,” I say. I collect their dirty looks. Mind your business, people. One Wednesday, Kit doesn’t leave for work, or the hospital. I peek at him from the kitchen where I am washing bottles, as he plays with Annie on the living room floor. I wait for him to leave; I almost want him to so I can get started with my day. But he doesn’t.

“Why are you here?” I ask suspiciously.

“Well, it’s my house. And this is my baby. Is that okay?”

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

“I thought I’d take the day off. Take you guys somewhere.” He touches the tip of his finger to Annie’s nose, and I am hit with a wave of dread. I don’t want to go anywhere with him. I can’t.

“Why don’t you go? I’ll pack the diaper bag for you.” I move toward the bag to stuff it with diapers, and formula. I am the diaper bag pro.

“No,” he says. “You need to get out. You’re stuck here all day. Go get dressed.”

I look down at myself: sweatpants and a tank top. I smell like throw up and baby lotion.

“All right.”

I don’t have clean clothes. I borrow something from Della’s closet. A pair of jeans and a cerulean top. I don’t have time to dry my hair, so I wind it up in a knot. Before we leave, I take the whiskey out of the cabinet and take a shot. I need something to clip my edge. I do not need this to feel like a family outing. We are not a family. Annie is not my baby. I’m going to hate every second of this day. I know it with certainty. HATE. Horrible, awful, fake family time.

He loads the carseat into the back of his truck, and holds the door open for me while I climb in. It’s obnoxious how he plays the right music and switches the station at the right time. He drives for the length of my buzz, and by the time we pull up in the dirt lot of some place I don’t recognize, I am wishing I snuck the bottle of whiskey into the diaper bag.

“Where are we?”

“It’s a farm!” he says. “We can pick our own oranges and have them squeezed into juice. And there are goats.”

“Goats?” I ask. “We’re spending our day with goats?”

“Don’t be lame, Helena. Goats are awesome.”

I don’t like goats. And I want whiskey to go with my orange juice. Within five minutes, we’re strolling to the farm entrance. Kit has Annie in a carrier strapped to his chest. It’s like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck the goats. They give us baskets and send us to the grove. I’m worried that an orange will fall on Annie’s head so I hover around Kit until he figures out what I’m doing.