The Neighbor

Chapter 73

A few days later

The morning light filters softly through the curtains of the nursery, casting a gentle glow across the room. You're sitting in the rocking chair, cradling Isabella in your arms, her tiny face pressed against your chest. You've been given the all clear to nurse her again, and you've been waiting for this moment—to feel the connection with her again, to provide for her in the most intimate way a mother can.

But Isabella won't latch.

She squirms in your arms, her little fists bunching up your shirt, but no matter how many times you gently guide her, she turns her head away, her tiny mouth refusing to latch on. The rejection—though unintentional—stings.

You try again, adjusting her position, whispering soothing words, but she's fussy, letting out soft whimpers of frustration, her body restless in your arms.

Your own frustration is building. Each time she refuses, it feels like a rejection, a reminder of how disconnected you've felt from everything lately. The week of healing, of feeling weak and powerless, have been hard enough. But now, even this: feeding your daughter isn't coming as easily as it should. It feels like another failure, another thing you can't seem to get right.

"Come on, baby," you whisper softly, trying to keep your voice calm despite the growing frustration in your chest. "Please...just this once."

But Isabella turns her head again, her soft little cry becoming louder, and you feel that familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. You shift her in your arms, trying to adjust her position again, but nothing works. The more you try, the more restless she becomes, and the knot in your chest pulls tighter.

You let out a sigh, trying to blink away the tears that are threatening to spill over. You don't want to feel like this you don't want to feel like you're failing.

But it's hard not to. You've been struggling so much already, and now this moment this simple, natural act isn't going the way it's supposed to.

Isabella's soft cries grow louder, her little fists waving in the air as she becomes more frustrated, and it only makes you feel more helpless. You shift her again, gently stroking her cheek in an attempt to soothe her, but it's no use. She refuses to nurse.

The frustration wells up inside you, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. You're exhausted emotionally and physically and now you're sitting here, feeling powerless again, unable to even do something as simple as feed your daughter.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I'm trying, baby. I'm really trying."

Isabella's tiny cries continue, and you close your eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath as you fight back the tears. You've already been through so much, and this—this moment—feels like the last thing you can handle right now. But you keep trying, because you have to. Because you don't know what else to do.

You press your lips gently to Isabella's forehead, whispering soothing words even though your own heart feels like it's breaking. "It's okay, baby...please princess."

You're not sure how to fix this. You're not sure how to make this right. And the uncertainty is suffocating.

Wanda walks up the stairs, the familiar creak of the old wood barely audible over the sound of the boys laughter as they playfully shove each other toward the bathroom. She ruffles their hair as she passes, her voice firm but light as she scolds them.

"Brush your teeth in the bathroom, boys," she says, raising an eyebrow as Billy sticks his toothbrush in his mouth while still lingering in the hallway. Tommy follows closely behind, the two of them a whirlwind of morning energy.