My husband died and our first child was born within the past two months, so all I wanted was for life to be boring for a while. Not ‘normal.’ No, some things crack the foundations of our assumed world so deeply that nothing can ever be normal again. Not even a new routine can feel stable once we’ve genuinely felt how ephemeral our own presence really is.

I used to go out every weekend. Now I’m thankful that the baby shit I clean at 3:00 in the morning means I can look forward to two full hours of sleep before Isla screams me awake.

She was promised two parents, but got one. Nine pounds and thirteen ounces felt like more than I could carry, but it’s amazing what we’re capable of doing when we have no other choice.

Without knowing who was listening, I prayed for a new normal. It found me – or at least its closest facsimile did – and I focused on the things within my control, because that’s the only way to prevent insanity.

I slept when my daughter did. The same was true for crying. I learned that motherhood means acting confident in your ability to make things up as you go along.

Then I heard the whispering. I’m a light sleeper now, so any noises coming from the baby monitor rattle me. This time was different, though; Isla wasn’t crying, but someone was talking.

I didn’t realize what ‘fear’ meant until I was racing down the hall, wondering who would be waiting on the other side of my child’s bedroom door. I was terrified of opening it, but my entire body was on autopilot and didn’t even slow down. I burst it open and found-

Nothing. Isla was alone in her crib, just as I’d left her.

I stepped toward her, hands and arms trembling, as the moon bathed her crib in pale light. When I stood over her, I saw that Isla was staring at me. She had been the whole time.

She was smiling.

“Hi, Mama.”

My stomach fell to the floor as I grabbed the crib for support. This was impossible. Of course I wanted to hear those words, but no three-week-old was capable of speech. I was either hallucinating or dreaming; there was no other possibility.

“Daddy’s dead.”

I almost collapsed. This felt too real. It was real. Isla’s lips moved, clean and articulate, like she was an adult. Nothing about this made sense.

I wanted to be happy for her, but it was too weird. Too wrong. I didn’t want to go through this alone in my baby’s dark bedroom at night.

I looked at my daughter, hoping she didn’t know that she made me afraid, and realizing that somehow she did. I tried to form words, but my mouth didn’t work. I felt like every muscle had frozen, crystalline, in place.

“Daddy’s dead because someone cut his throat open with a knife.”

I fell to the ground. Every joint felt like hot wax; I wanted to vomit through my eyes.

I’m not proud of the fact that I left her alone, but I was sure that no one else was in the room. I would have died for Isla there and then if necessary; but, in the absence of a threat, I had to retreat.

So I crawled, hand over hand, through the hallway and into my room.

I lacked the energy to climb back into bed.

So I curled into the fetal position, clutching the edge of my blanket and focusing on breathing.

Sometimes, that’s all you can do.

I stared at the moon and wondered who might be looking back, because someone was watching.

How else could Isla have known that I killed my husband?

BD

W

E