“You think I care about that?” I shook my head. “I’m in fucking awe of you, baby. What you just did? Giving me a son? Christ, Molloy I’m punching so high right now it’s ridiculous.”
“Really?”
“Really, really.”
“Oh, lovely.” Sniffling, she nodded and leaned into my side. “I’m wearing a nappy.”
She had those disposable knickers and socks on, and I felt so fucking guilty for doing this to her, because I was under no illusions as to who was responsible for this girl.
Me.
“That’s it. Nice and slow.” Taking it one step at a time, I helped her into the adjoining bathroom. “There’s no rush, baby.”
“Thanks, Joe,” she said when we were safely inside the bathroom and away from prying eyes. “You can go out now.”
Yeah, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not when she looked like she was two seconds away from passing out on the floor. She’d been giving two units of blood and an iron transfusion for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t fit to be going anywhere on her own, much less showering alone.
“No, Molloy, stop, okay?” I coaxed, recapturing her arm when she tried to stand on her own. “Let me help you.”
“No.” Her lip wobbled again, and I watched as she tried to blink her tears away, as I helped her into the shower. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” she cried, using her free hand to gesture to her stomach and legs. “It’s disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting,” I corrected gruffly. When she made no move to, I reached for the hem of the bloodstained nightdress she’d been wearing during labor.
“No.” She shook her head and twisted her body away. “Joe, no. I don’t look like me anymore.”
Fuck, that hurt.
Her vulnerability was soul shredding.
I was desperate to soothe her.
To make it right.
Her stomach was bruised and deflated, with deep purple stretch marks from where her body had housed and carried my son.
“You’re so beautiful,” I told her, voice cracking when my stupid fucking emotions threatened to get the better of me.
“No.” Sniffling, she shook her head, refuting my words.
“Yes,” I corrected gruffly, catching ahold of her chin with my hand. “Yes.”
Green eyes stared up at me, so full of pain and vulnerability. “I missed you so bad.” Clutching the back of my neck, she pulled my face down to hers. “I feel like I died this summer without you and I’m only coming back to life now.”
“Yeah.” Resting my brow against hers, I absorbed the moment, the feelings, the weight of my conscience, the future laid out before us. “I know the feeling.”
It was her.
It always had been.
It always would be.
The girl from the wall.
“I’m going to take care of you,” I told her. “Because I love you.” She shivered violently when I pressed a kiss to her head. “Because I think you’re sexy as fuck.” Carefully reaching for the hem of her disposable underwear, I guided them off. “Because you’re my queen.” Disposing of everything she was wearing, I switched on the shower and held onto her trembling frame as she stood under the hot spray of water, not giving a damn that I was getting wet in the process. My entire focus was on the girl still looking at me like I hung the moon. “And because everything I have, everything I am, I owe to you.”
“Aoife, love? How are you getting on in there?” Trish called out, moments before barreling into the bathroom.
“Mam, get out,” Molloy hissed, giving her mother her back. “God!”
“What’s that on your arse?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that a tattoo?”
“No.”
“Is that Joey’s name?”
“Mam, get out!”
“Oh, Jesus, Tony.”
“What’s wrong, Trish?”
“No wonder that daughter of ours didn’t want me helping her shower. She has that young fella’s name tattooed on her arse!”
I CAN’T DO THIS
AOIFE
Sleep deprivation made me a weak woman. It was the reason I had sent that dangerous text message in the middle of the night.
Exhaustion had well and truly set in, making it harder not to dwell on the feelings of regret raging inside of me.
It was the reason that Joey was sitting on the edge of my hospital bed at eight o clock on Thursday morning.
Clad in a freshly ironed Tommen uniform, and with our son nestled in the crook of his elbow, he looked more natural at this parenting gig than I could ever dream to be.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, as he fed AJ his bottle.
His bottle.
Another pained sob escaped me.
I couldn’t get him to latch.
I couldn’t do anything right.
Night two with our son had been an even bigger disaster than night one, and I was beginning to think that AJ didn’t like me.
“You’re just tired,” Joey said, setting down the empty bottle and reaching for my hand. “You’ve got this, Molloy.”
"No, Joe, I really don’t," I croaked out, trying my best not to give in to the overwhelming temptation to scream at the top of my lungs. "Everyone was right. I can't do this."
“Yes, you can,” he corrected, releasing my hand to settle AJ against his shoulder. “I promise you can,” he continued, shifting closer to tuck me under his free arm. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
"It won’t be.” I shook my head and wiped my nose with the sleeve of my hoodie. "I’m a shit mam.” Another sob racked through my chest. “He h-hates me. He n-never c-cries for you. I c-can’t even f-feed him p-properly.”
“Bullshit.” Standing up, I watched as he finished winding our son. "You're not a shit mam." Handling our son with as much skill as any of the midwives in the hospital, Joey set him down on the bed and went to work on changing him. “You’re panicking and he can sense it,” he explained gently, giving our baby a fresh nappy before popping his tiny body back into a clean onesie. "As soon as you relax, he will too." Lifting AJ into his arms, he cradled him for a moment, swaying from side to side, before settling him down in his bassinet and returning to me. “You’re exhausted, Molloy. You’re going through a lot right now, baby, and that little baby adores you, okay?” Sinking down on the bed, he carefully pulled me onto his lap. “And don’t worry about how he’s fed just as long as he’s fed.”
“But Mam said I sh-should be breastfeeding.“
“I don’t give a shit what your mother said,” he countered, tightening his hold on me. “I’m his father, and I’m telling you now that he’s fine. He’s guzzling his bottles. He’s clearly piling on the weight. There’s not a bother on him, Molloy. He’s thriving.”
“I hate being here on my own,” I admitted, burying my face in his new school jumper. “Nighttime is the worst.”
“You know I would’ve stayed with you if I could’ve,” he replied, sounding pained. “But they kick partners out at midnight.”