The Way We Feel

Chapter 40

"I think... I think I forgot who I was. Before I became a mom, I mean." Mads had been sitting with her legs crossed, a mere foot from me, as she said it. "But I didn't realize it either. It was like, once Lila was here, I just kind of... slowly stopped existing."

Wendy had been listening attentively as well, but I was sure she wasn't paying attention to the cross of Madelyn's legs like I was, the grip her laced fingers had on her knee, the way her eyes had kind of fogged over, thrown back into memories that I was surely apart of, but couldn't see.

Everything about her in that moment had read calm, collected. I was the one who felt like my insides were spilling out. I was the one who felt like my emotions were pouring out too quickly for me to get a handle on them. I was the one whose heart was galloping in my chest, furiously trying to get somewhere that I couldn't identify.

But Mads... she'd just gone on.

"Which sounds really terrible, but it didn't feel terrible at all," she said with a smile—not for me, but for Wendy. "It felt like the most natural thing in the world. To put all my focus, all my energy and love, into her instead of me. And I was happy to do it, so... I guess that's why I didn't realize that I'd disappeared until it was too late."

That was when she'd glanced at me. And when our eyes met, I felt a tear fall from mine and swiped it away. Mads had only smiled tenderly.

"Until I didn't know how to find myself again."

Those words—the understanding that had come from her explanation—had stayed with me ever since our appointment with Wendy yesterday. Our fourth session. The one that marked a month together in New York. A month together home. And after a month together again, it was only in the last week or so that it really started to feel like we were together again.

I edged around the long, flat boxes in the hallway, propped up on each other against the wall just outside the door to Lila's room. Music was spilling through the door, and the smell of paint had permeated the house, despite us having opened all the windows, but we were nearly done now, and I was looking forward to relaxing together.

Just the two of us.

Michelle had taken Lila for the day so that we could get some work done on her room. We'd bought the paint last week, just like we'd planned, and even gone shopping for her furniture—a crib, dresser and changing table. Then we'd gotten the other things—like lamps, curtains, toys, and a rocking chair among other little decorative touches that Mads insisted we needed, like stickers for her wall, and shelving for her books, and little statues of elephants and giraffes and monkeys to decorate those shelves in front of the books.

It was all a bit over my head, if I was honest, but I let Mads do what she wanted, remembering how Lila's room in L.A. had looked—all cozy and comforting—thanks to her mother's eye.

Of course, none of those things could be set up until we painted, and we hadn't yet painted because we didn't want Lila to be here when all the fumes were wafting through the flat. So, Michelle, deciding that we'd never get to it if she didn't press the matter, had insisted that she could take Lila today since she was off from work through tomorrow to give us some time to get things done.

We'd pick Lila up tomorrow afternoon.

Which meant that tonight would be our first night alone together since... well, since Lila was born.

And however the night unfolded, I would treasure every moment with the knowledge that just being with her, however she wanted me to be with her, was better than being apart.

Mads was squatting in a pair of shorts and a tank top, diligently painting the windowsill now that the walls were done. We'd gone with a soft yellow this time. Though neither of us had said it, it had occurred to me that maybe both of us wanted a fresh start, even though decorating Lila's room in L.A. had brought us immeasurable joy before she was born. I wondered if, for both of us, trying to recreate that room might bring back the wrong kinds of memories rather than the good ones.