So the afternoon Wendy was discharged, Mitchell packed the car with the soft efficiency of a man trying not to show his fear. A few bags. Paige’s bassinet. Diapers. Formula just in case breastfeeding proved hard. Pain medication. Mesh underwear. The absurd humiliating supplies of postpartum survival. Wendy walked bent forward with one hand against her belly as if she could hold herself together by pressure alone.
Her parents’ house sat in a quiet, manicured neighborhood of trimmed hedges, deep porches, and carefully chosen seasonal wreaths. Wendy had grown up there. She knew which stair groaned near the upstairs landing, which window stuck in humid weather, which patch of the backyard flooded after heavy rain. Childhood memory made the place feel familiar even when adulthood had taught her not to confuse familiarity with safety.
Mitchell parked in the drive and came around immediately to help her out. Wendy moved slowly, biting the inside of her cheek every time a new angle sent heat across her incision. Paige, tiny and swaddled, slept in her car seat for once like a merciful miracle.