The New Mother by Nora Murphy: Featured Excerpt

From Nora Murphy, author of The Favor, The New Mother is both relatable and nerve-wracking, sympathetic and bone-chilling—a fresh new twist on motherhood and murder in suburbia. Start reading an excerpt here!

Chapter Two

“I’m not leaving.”

“Nat.”

I poked my nipple at Oliver’s chin. His mouth, pink and wet like chewed-up bubble gum, turned down at the corners, remained resolutely closed. He was so beautiful. Peach fuzz of golden hair, eyes that were cobalt in the light, black in the dark of night.

“Natalie. Let’s go home.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not leaving.” I tried to squeeze out a drop of colostrum, to wave it beneath my baby’s nose.

“Home,” Tyler said again. He dragged out the word, as if I were a child learning to speak. “Don’t you want to sleep in your own bed tonight?” Tyler asked.

Sleep. I almost laughed.

My dad had visited us the previous day, followed by Tyler’s parents, then his sister. I’d not managed to change out of my blood-spotted hospital gown before any of them had arrived. I’d not managed to shower until after all of them had gone. Then, once they were, and I might finally be able to sleep, I couldn’t. My mind raced, and I watched Oliver.

The night nurse had come in at two in the morning and watched me try to get Oliver to latch. She looked like a ghost, hovering in the doorway in her pale scrubs.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked.

I hadn’t. “I’m fine,” I said.

“I can take him to the nursery for a couple hours,” she said. “Let you get some rest.” She eyed Tyler, who was sprawled across the sofa, his right arm grazing the floor, with a measure of skepticism.

The nursery. I knew what that meant. They’d put my son in a plastic bassinet, alongside the other babies. They would all look alike. When time was up, they might bring me the wrong one. Would I even know? When Oliver cried, they’d feed him a bottle—a bottle—filled with formula—formula.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

She had nodded, businesslike, then she took my vitals, dispensed two Midol, and left.

I needed that nurse to come back tonight. To ask me again. I might even let myself say yes. I might not. But, still, I wanted her to ask. I wanted to feel the pride, to hear the little voice in my head telling me I was a good mom if I said no. If I was at home, she wouldn’t come. At home, no one would come.

“Natalie,” Tyler said. “You’ve been discharged. Oliver has been discharged. Let’s go home.”

He took Oliver from my arms and began to rock him back and forth, looking down at me, his eyebrows raised in a silent directive. Come on. Get dressed.

“You need to get the car seat, right? Pull the car out front.”

“Oh,” Tyler said. “Right.”

I pushed myself out of the hospital bed and began to dig through the duffel bag we had packed together, weeks ago, filled with hope and excitement, getting it ready for when labor spontaneously began. It never had.

“Should I just . . . ?” Tyler looked around the room, as if searching for a third person who could hold the baby. He put Oliver in his bassinet. “Be right back,” he said, then he disappeared.

Nothing I had packed fit. I had read that I should bring clothes that had fit when I was six months’ pregnant. My optimistically bright and floral maternity T-shirts, which had previously stretched tightly, cutely, over my bulging belly, looked ridiculous hugging my sagging, puckered flesh. I pulled on one of Tyler’s T-shirts. It was threadbare and dirty, smelling like sweat and warmth and the body wash he had used the morning before we left for the hospital. There was a smear of deodorant along the hem.

I inspected myself in the mirror. There were swollen, purple circles beneath my eyes, bruise-like, and just as tender. I was a mother now. I’d never looked so hideous.

Tyler burst back into the room, the skin above his upper lip damp with sweat.

“It’s so hot,” he said. “Ninety degrees already. I pulled the car up out front, left it running to cool it down.” He placed the car seat onto the bed from which I’d barely moved for the last two days.

“That’s not legal,” I said. I was peeking at Oliver every few seconds while packing up my things. “You can’t just abandon a running car.”

I could tell that Tyler wanted to roll his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t. I had just been stitched back together after birthing his child. I was hormonal. He had to tread carefully. He spun away from me and left the room.

“He should know that,” I whispered to Oliver, who had dozed off in his bassinet. “He’s a lawyer, too.”

I struggled to zip the duffel bag. Our belongings seemed to have multiplied, expanded, like belongings tended to do on vacation, like the bellies of the people who had packed them, although our experience couldn’t otherwise have been any less like a vacation.

Tyler appeared again, sweatier than before. There were speckles of moisture on his chest. He was out of shape. He’d gained weight during my pregnancy. He’d probably never lose it, and that would be okay. Meanwhile, I was overwhelmed by the repulsiveness of my body, now that our child had departed from it. I was struck by a sense of urgency for it to go back to the way it had been before.

“I found a spot near the front,” Tyler said. “We’ll go down and you can wait in the lobby while I cool the car down.”

He said it as if we were checking out of a five-star hotel.

We both turned to Oliver. He was still sleeping, wrapped in his swaddle. The nurse had wrapped him up for us. Tyler and I still didn’t have the hang of the technique. That first night, every time we had changed his diaper, after wiping the sticky, tar-like mess from his bottom, too tired to laugh at how disgusting and difficult it was, we had each tried to swaddle him several times, but one corner of the blanket always popped free. It wasn’t tight enough. It wasn’t safe. If it was too loose, the fabric could cover his face. It could suffocate him. So, I’d had to watch him, to make sure the fabric stayed in place, to make sure he didn’t suffocate.

“I guess we should dress him,” Tyler said.

I held up the onesie I had extracted from our bag. It was creamy and silky soft and printed with tiny elephants. Tyler gingerly tugged the blanket loose and Oliver promptly began to fuss in his sleep.

“Maybe we should just wait for him to wake up,” I said.

Tyler ignored me, so I stepped forward and pulled the outfit over Oliver’s head, a sick feeling brewing in my gut. He seemed so fragile.

We looked down at our child. He was swimming in the outfit, blinking up at us with eyes that were heavy with sleep.

“Do you have shoes?” Tyler asked.

“Shoes?” I was aghast. “He’s a newborn baby. He doesn’t have to wear shoes.”

“Er, socks, then. It seems like he should have something on his feet, doesn’t it?”

I lifted Oliver up and approached the car seat. I hadn’t brought any baby socks. I didn’t even own a pair.

“I don’t know,” I said. “No one bought me socks for the baby shower. I think that if a baby was supposed to wear socks, people would have bought me some.”

“Did you put them on your registry?” Tyler asked.

I hadn’t.

I blinked back tears as I pushed the car seat straps to the side, already feeling like I had failed my son. I tucked him in as carefully as I could, then fastened the straps. I’d practiced buckling them and unbuckling them last week, barely able to see what I was doing over my belly.

“Is that tight enough?” Tyler asked.

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” I snapped. “I don’t know the answers. Why don’t you look them up?”

Dutifully, he turned away from me and began to search for something on his cell phone. I tucked the blanket around Oliver’s lap and slipped my feet into the flip-flops I’d worn to the hospital, the only shoes that had fit over my fluid-filled feet at the end of my pregnancy. They still looked grotesque, swollen up to the base of my shins. The nurse had assured me that the swelling would go down in a couple weeks.

She came bustling into the room, then, after a curt knock.

“Are we ready?” she asked. “He looks darling.”

“Is this tight enough?” I asked her, fiddling with the car seat straps.

She bent over to look. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“Yes,” said Tyler. “The clip should be beneath the level of his underarms, no slack in the straps,” as if he’d known this all along.

“You’ll have to sit in the wheelchair, alright?” the nurse said. “I know you can walk, but it’s policy.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I settled onto it, feeling slightly ridiculous. Tyler slung the straps of our duffel bag over his shoulder and tucked the pillows we’d brought from home under his arms. He had no arms left for the baby.

“Here,” said the nurse. “I’ll put the car seat on your lap.”

She pushed me through the halls, struggling to round corners. She was a petite woman, and her effort felt shameful, a reminder of all the weight I would have to lose. People smiled at me and moved out of the way as we passed. Congratulations, they murmured. I smiled back, but I wished they’d stop looking.

Tyler ran ahead of us to start the car and pull it up front.

“Let’s go just outside,” the nurse suggested. “Better to wait in the shade outside than in here. Too many germs.”

I was horrified. I’d not even thought of the germ-infested lobby air as a danger to my baby. I hugged the car seat more tightly to my body, as though I could shield him from illness that way.

The nurse pushed me down to Tyler’s car. We bumped over the cracks in the sidewalk and I clenched my teeth, feeling pain echo through my body.

Tyler took the car seat and clicked it into place in the middle seat in the back of the car.

“Do you want to sit in the back with the baby?” the nurse asked. I could tell she’d forgotten his name.

“Yes,” I replied, grateful for the suggestion. I hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t realized that the days of sitting beside Tyler in the car, fiddling with the air-conditioning controls, changing the radio station, feeling his hand reach for mine, were over.

“Bye, sweetie,” the nurse whispered as I slid into the backseat. “You’ll do great.”

I nodded, smiled bravely.

She slammed the car door, and then she was gone.

“Ready?” Tyler asked.

and slipped my feet into the flip-flops I’d worn to the hospital, the only shoes that had fit over my fluid-filled feet at the end of my pregnancy. They still looked grotesque, swollen up to the base of my shins. The nurse had assured me that the swelling would go down in a couple weeks.

She came bustling into the room, then, after a curt knock.

“Are we ready?” she asked. “He looks darling.”

“Is this tight enough?” I asked her, fiddling with the car seat straps.

She bent over to look. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“Yes,” said Tyler. “The clip should be beneath the level of his underarms, no slack in the straps,” as if he’d known this all along.

“You’ll have to sit in the wheelchair, alright?” the nurse said. “I know you can walk, but it’s policy.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I settled onto it, feeling slightly ridiculous. Tyler slung the straps of our duffel bag over his shoulder and tucked the pillows we’d brought from home under his arms. He had no arms left for the baby.

“Here,” said the nurse. “I’ll put the car seat on your lap.”

She pushed me through the halls, struggling to round corners. She was a petite woman, and her effort felt shameful, a reminder of all the weight I would have to lose. People smiled at me and moved out of the way as we passed. Congratulations, they murmured. I smiled back, but I wished they’d stop looking.

Tyler ran ahead of us to start the car and pull it up front.

“Let’s go just outside,” the nurse suggested. “Better to wait in the shade outside than in here. Too many germs.”

I was horrified. I’d not even thought of the germ-infested lobby air as a danger to my baby. I hugged the car seat more tightly to my body, as though I could shield him from illness that way.

The nurse pushed me down to Tyler’s car. We bumped over the cracks in the sidewalk and I clenched my teeth, feeling pain echo through my body.

Tyler took the car seat and clicked it into place in the middle seat in the back of the car.

“Do you want to sit in the back with the baby?” the nurse asked. I could tell she’d forgotten his name.

“Yes,” I replied, grateful for the suggestion. I hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t realized that the days of sitting beside Tyler in the car, fiddling with the air-conditioning controls, changing the radio station, feeling his hand reach for mine, were over.

“Bye, sweetie,” the nurse whispered as I slid into the backseat. “You’ll do great.”

I nodded, smiled bravely.

She slammed the car door, and then she was gone.

“Ready?” Tyler asked.

I wasn’t. I wasn’t the one who wanted to leave.

“Sure,” I said.

He pulled away from the curb. Oliver had dozed off. I reached into the car seat and slipped my index finger into the hollow of his curled hand.

Tyler sped past the road that led to our old neighborhood.

“Where are you going?” I almost asked. I’d forgotten. We weren’t headed to our little rancher just outside the city limits. We were going to the new house, impractically spacious for just two adults and one small baby. With soaring ceilings and the white kitchen I had thought that I wanted so badly until I had it. With shiny porcelain tile and dove-gray walls. With four bedrooms and glossy, wide-plank wood floors. With a two-car garage that we weren’t even using because the previous owners hadn’t left the remote openers behind and we were too busy to buy and program new ones.

* * *

* * *

There was no activity along Ashby Drive. A few weeks of summer vacation remained, but school would be starting soon. Colored markers, scissors, glue sticks, and mechanical pencils had been bought. Back-to-school clothes were hanging in closets and folded in drawers, awaiting their first-day-of-school debuts. The high schoolers were almost looking forward to the day. Would they be cool this year? Popular? Would anyone notice their haircuts and tans? As if any of it mattered. They thought it did. I had, too, back then.

It was too hot, too sunny, to set up sprinklers in the front yard or drape Slip ’N Slides along the hill out back. The heat was rising from the pavement in rippling waves. It was the kind of day that conjured thoughts of skin cancer and heatstroke rather than summer fun.

Tyler parked in the driveway and leapt out, rushing over to open the door for me, like we were arriving at my house at the end of a date that had gone extremely well.

“Can you get the baby?” I asked him after pulling myself out of the car with an astonishing lack of grace.

“Of course,” he said.

He was so chipper. He’d not been awake for three days and two nights straight.

Meanwhile, I feared that I was dying. The burning pain from the stitches. The dull ache behind my eyes. It felt like I was being held beneath the surface of a murky body of water. Everything smelled faintly of blood.

I stood in the driveway and watched Tyler unlatch the car seat and remove it from the car. “I’ll come back for the stuff,” he said.

I nodded and followed him up the porch steps. He fiddled with his keys and I closed my eyes for a second, feeling my body sway, imagining we were standing on the porch of our little rancher.

“Sure,” I said.

He pulled away from the curb. Oliver had dozed off. I reached into the car seat and slipped my index finger into the hollow of his curled hand.

Tyler sped past the road that led to our old neighborhood.

“Where are you going?” I almost asked. I’d forgotten. We weren’t headed to our little rancher just outside the city limits. We were going to the new house, impractically spacious for just two adults and one small baby. With soaring ceilings and the white kitchen I had thought that I wanted so badly until I had it. With shiny porcelain tile and dove-gray walls. With four bedrooms and glossy, wide-plank wood floors. With a two-car garage that we weren’t even using because the previous owners hadn’t left the remote openers behind and we were too busy to buy and program new ones.

* * *

There was no activity along Ashby Drive. A few weeks of summer vacation remained, but school would be starting soon. Colored markers, scissors, glue sticks, and mechanical pencils had been bought. Back-to-school clothes were hanging in closets and folded in drawers, awaiting their first-day-of-school debuts. The high schoolers were almost looking forward to the day. Would they be cool this year? Popular? Would anyone notice their haircuts and tans? As if any of it mattered. They thought it did. I had, too, back then.

It was too hot, too sunny, to set up sprinklers in the front yard or drape Slip ’N Slides along the hill out back. The heat was rising from the pavement in rippling waves. It was the kind of day that conjured thoughts of skin cancer and heatstroke rather than summer fun.

Tyler parked in the driveway and leapt out, rushing over to open the door for me, like we were arriving at my house at the end of a date that had gone extremely well.

“Can you get the baby?” I asked him after pulling myself out of the car with an astonishing lack of grace.

“Of course,” he said.

He was so chipper. He’d not been awake for three days and two nights straight.

Meanwhile, I feared that I was dying. The burning pain from the stitches. The dull ache behind my eyes. It felt like I was being held beneath the surface of a murky body of water. Everything smelled faintly of blood.

I stood in the driveway and watched Tyler unlatch the car seat and remove it from the car. “I’ll come back for the stuff,” he said.

I nodded and followed him up the porch steps. He fiddled with his keys and I closed my eyes for a second, feeling my body sway, imagining we were standing on the porch of our little rancher.

It had been Tyler’s idea to move. We needed more space for the baby things. More bedrooms for the baby and his future sibling, because I was an only child, and I had always assumed I’d have two kids of my own. We wanted a better school district. A garage so we could shuffle the kids and our belongings and ourselves from house to car while protected from the rain and snow.

Sure, those things would be nice. One day. We hadn’t needed those things immediately. And we hadn’t needed worse commutes. We were already about to experience a massive change that would shatter our lives completely. Wouldn’t it be easier to have a smaller house, closer to our respective offices, familiar in its smells and creaks? I could make my way from our bed to the kitchen and back with my eyes closed in that house, without having to climb any stairs.

But Tyler had been insistent. Interest rates were low. It wasn’t a good time to move, but it would never be a good time to move. It would only be more difficult once the baby was born. Besides, the perfect house had come on the market. Just over three thousand square feet, not including the basement, move-in ready, with a brick porch and grand portico held steady by white columns. Schools ranked nines and tens. All of those things that should matter in a house but in which I wasn’t interested because it wasn’t our house. It wasn’t home.

Tyler had booked a tour the morning the listing went live, and we made a full-price offer that night. The house was ours before I was able to fully digest how little I wanted it.

Then came the matter of getting our rancher ready to list. New paint. Power washing. Replacing light fixtures. Having carpets cleaned and hardwoods waxed. Fortunately, it sold in a week. It was a darling house, with turquoise shutters and bay windows that looked like eyes flanking the front door, which was as yellow as the daffodils that bloomed out front every April. I had painted the door myself the weekend we had moved in, five years ago.

Suddenly, the move was complete. The rancher was no longer home, while the house on Ashby Drive had not yet taken its place in my heart or mind.

Unpacking took days, and we had tripled our square footage. We bought and assembled complete rooms’ worth of furniture. We painted the nursery a soothing green. We hung pictures and measured for area rugs. All of it was at Tyler’s insistence. He seemed to believe that filling the house would make me feel more settled. It had only made me feel like I was a guest in someone else’s home, sitting on stiff couches, resting my head on strange-smelling throw pillows, gazing at canvas prints that meant nothing to me.

Finally, Tyler located the correct key and pushed the front door open. He placed the car seat on the floor in the foyer. Frosty air, unfamiliar, the smell of a stranger’s house, swirled around us.

“You’re home,” he told Oliver. He turned and went back outside, presumably to retrieve our bag and pillows from the car.

I unbuckled the straps and extracted Oliver. He was still sleeping, but I had read that you should never let your baby sleep in its car seat if it wasn’t actually riding in the car. Automatically, I limped up the stairs and entered the nursery.

I laid Oliver down in his crib. He looked so tiny in the middle of his mattress. His eyes opened and he turned his head to the side, staring out between the crib bars. It was like he was in jail. His eyes drifted closed again.

I wanted to unpack my things from the duffel bag. To take a shower beneath the rain-shower head in the master bathroom. To pop a Midol. To lie down. But how could I do any of those things, now that Oliver was here? I longed, ached, to put him back inside me. Then I could go about my business, while knowing he was safe and comfortable and part of me.

There had been so much anticipation leading up to Oliver’s birth. It had been the center of our lives ever since we had sat cross-legged on our bed and stared down at the tiny word on the plastic, pee-soaked test last November, while we laughed giddily, nervously—PREGNANT. Everything we had done since was with Oliver in mind, was in preparation for his arrival. Now, here he was, and I hadn’t a clue what came next.

I moved toward the door, then paused. I couldn’t leave him.

I leaned over the top of the crib, reached for his body, then froze. I couldn’t wake him, either.

I sank to the floor, pressing my face into the unusual fleshiness of my arm, trying as best as I could to muffle my cries. It had been a foolish thing to do, crouching down, letting myself collapse. Pain engulfed me. I needed that Midol. I needed something much, much stronger.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. Behind me, Oliver began to whimper. I wiped my face with the hem of Tyler’s T-shirt, then pushed myself up from the ground. I couldn’t break down. There was this human now, this human we had created.

I rolled up Tyler’s T-shirt and settled down in the rocking chair. One of the breastfeeding pillows I had received at my baby shower was on the floor beside me, where I’d stationed it, ready and waiting for action. I congratulated myself for the forethought. I had done quite a bit of planning. Planning, preparation, was what gave me confidence. It was what I did before making presentations to partners at work. Before stepping into a client meeting. Before dialing opposing counsel to negotiate a term in a contract. Preparation and research made me feel competent and intelligent. It wasn’t working when it came to mothering. I had planned and researched every tiny thing. Why did I still feel lost?

I arranged the pillow on my lap and settled Oliver on top of it. I poked my nipple into his mouth, which was opening and closing as he fussed. On the third try, he accepted it and began to suck. My breast felt oddly firm, which meant, I suspected, that my milk was finally coming in.

I could hear Tyler climbing the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Look at you,” he said. He was smiling. He didn’t look like he was dying. “Settling right in.”

I didn’t move, didn’t speak. I didn’t want Oliver to lose his grip.

“My mom dropped off some groceries,” Tyler said. “Our fridge is packed. Want me to make something to eat?”

He didn’t wait for me to respond, just turned and left. I could hear his footsteps, light and quick on the steps. I hated how free he was. I didn’t think I would ever be that way again. The weight of what we’d done, the responsibility of what we would need to do next, for almost two decades, was squeezing the air from my lungs.

Oliver was falling asleep at my breast, so I tickled his head with the tips of my fingers the way the lactation consultant had shown me in the hospital. She’d said I needed to keep him awake so that he could eat, to wake him every two hours for a feeding, until he’d regained the weight he’d lost after birth. I knew this already, of course. I’d read this in all the baby care books I had downloaded onto my Kindle and devoured during the sleepless, restless nights during my pregnancy.

Oliver drifted to sleep anyway, so I sat there, cradling him against me, rocking in the chair.

I heard Tyler clattering dishes and slamming cabinets downstairs. I thought of his mother carrying brimming paper bags into our house and unloading them carefully, putting everything in the wrong place, smiling faintly at the thought of her first grandchild. She hadn’t worked a single day since she was twenty-eight years old. She’d left her job when she was eight months’ pregnant with Tyler and had never returned. She liked to tell me stories of the exhaustion she’d felt, how difficult breastfeeding was. How her body hadn’t made enough milk, so she’d switched to formula after a few days.

She’d never pumped milk into little plastic bottles and lined them up in the communal fridge. She’d never dragged herself out of bed after two hours of sleep and driven downtown to meet with clients and write memos to partners and account for every minute of her time in the software that tracked billable hours.

She had no idea what lay ahead of me. Neither did I.

“I made you some food,” Tyler called from downstairs, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Congratulations,” I murmured.

I carried Oliver downstairs with me and settled into a chair at the kitchen table, cradling him in both my arms.

“Do you want to, um, put him down or something?” Tyler asked. He’d made sandwiches, little piles of strawberries on each of our plates.

I shook my head, rested Oliver on my lap, my right arm still cradling him, and lifted my sandwich with my left hand. Slimy, deli-style chicken I never would have purchased or eaten fell out the bottom, along with several leaves of butter lettuce smeared with mustard that looked like wet sand.

I started to cry.

“Nat,” said Tyler. He sounded alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t say what I was feeling. It was too shameful, too wrong.

And that was the thing. It felt wrong. Everything did. Everything felt too different. Too overwhelming and impossible. What had I been expecting? What had we done?

next, for almost two decades, was squeezing the air from my lungs.

Oliver was falling asleep at my breast, so I tickled his head with the tips of my fingers the way the lactation consultant had shown me in the hospital. She’d said I needed to keep him awake so that he could eat, to wake him every two hours for a feeding, until he’d regained the weight he’d lost after birth. I knew this already, of course. I’d read this in all the baby care books I had downloaded onto my Kindle and devoured during the sleepless, restless nights during my pregnancy.

Oliver drifted to sleep anyway, so I sat there, cradling him against me, rocking in the chair.

I heard Tyler clattering dishes and slamming cabinets downstairs. I thought of his mother carrying brimming paper bags into our house and unloading them carefully, putting everything in the wrong place, smiling faintly at the thought of her first grandchild. She hadn’t worked a single day since she was twenty-eight years old. She’d left her job when she was eight months’ pregnant with Tyler and had never returned. She liked to tell me stories of the exhaustion she’d felt, how difficult breastfeeding was. How her body hadn’t made enough milk, so she’d switched to formula after a few days.

She’d never pumped milk into little plastic bottles and lined them up in the communal fridge. She’d never dragged herself out of bed after two hours of sleep and driven downtown to meet with clients and write memos to partners and account for every minute of her time in the software that tracked billable hours.

She had no idea what lay ahead of me. Neither did I.

“I made you some food,” Tyler called from downstairs, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Congratulations,” I murmured.

I carried Oliver downstairs with me and settled into a chair at the kitchen table, cradling him in both my arms.

“Do you want to, um, put him down or something?” Tyler asked. He’d made sandwiches, little piles of strawberries on each of our plates.

I shook my head, rested Oliver on my lap, my right arm still cradling him, and lifted my sandwich with my left hand. Slimy, deli-style chicken I never would have purchased or eaten fell out the bottom, along with several leaves of butter lettuce smeared with mustard that looked like wet sand.

I started to cry.

“Nat,” said Tyler. He sounded alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t say what I was feeling. It was too shameful, too wrong.

And that was the thing. It felt wrong. Everything did. Everything felt too different. Too overwhelming and impossible. What had I been expecting? What had we done?

I felt broken. Heavy with exhaustion. Hunger was twisting my insides into knots. Pain was ricocheting through me as I sat on the unforgiving wooden chair. I felt like a nuisance to myself. A burden. That my needs and my feelings still existed wasn’t fair. How could I possibly care for us both?

A tear rolled down my face and fell onto Oliver’s forehead. He didn’t stir.

“Nat,” Tyler said again. I could tell he was scared.

I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I just feel a little overwhelmed, being home,” I said. “But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t the truth, but it would have to be. What choice did I have?

Copyright © 2023 by Nora Murphy. All rights reserved.

About The New Mother by Nora Murphy:

Isolated. Lonely. Tired. It’s hard being The New Mother. Sometimes it’s murder.

Nothing is simple about being a new mom alone in a new house, especially when your baby is collicky. Natalie Fanning loves her son unconditionally, but being a mother was not all she wanted to be.

Enter Paul, the neighbor.

Paul provides the lifeline she needs in what feels like the most desperate of times. When Paul is helping with Oliver, calmed by his reassuring, steady presence, Nat feels like she can finally rest.

But Paul wants something in return. It’s no coincidence that he has befriended Nat—she is the perfect pawn for his own plan. Will Nat wake up in time to see it?

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