Page 63 of Insidious

Amelie’s gramma must have gotten to her first.

I scrub a hand over my face and stand, still wrapped in that unsettled feeling after a nightmare … when you try to convince yourself that strangers have not taken your baby away.

My pyjamas are the thick, faded, unsexy kind. I pad to my closet for my woollen socks and fluffy robe, then to the toilet to sleepily complete my morning routine. It feels like years since I have had the luxury of taking my time like this.

Refreshed, my hair in a messy, lopsided bun, I make my way downstairs.

When we bought this run-down, semi-detached house years ago, it felt like a never-ending dinosaur, consuming our energy and time. We had done most of the renovation ourselves, bringing in professionals only for the roof, the plumbing, and the rewiring. After tearing down a couple of walls, the lower level is now open-plan with a common kitchen and dining area. The living room is separate, with large French windows overlooking the front garden and drive. Tall hedges separate the houses, giving an illusion of privacy.

The kitchen glows ahead of me, full of soft early light. It is my favourite space in the house … Once our favourite space …

For a moment, it almost feels like I have travelled back in time.

Normal.

My mum is at the stove, already dressed, multitasking well as she always does. On the kitchen floor, the infant swing rocks gently, and I hear her soft gurgles before I see her.

Amelie.

The tension in my chest loosens instantly. I didn’t even realise it was there until I saw my baby.

I move closer, drawn to my little lodestone.

And then I let my eyes wander for just a second. Isaac is sitting at the island with a mug of coffee in his hands.

He looks up when I walk in and follows me with his eyes as I tickle Amelie’s little belly, making her kick out her little legs.

There is a subtle tension here that wasn’t before.

My parents often joke about having adopted Isaac after we got together. My mum, especially, loves him to bits. She is always admonishing him to eat less junk food, to work less.

But now, Mum doesn’t look at him. She moves around him, past him, like he’s someone she’s being polite to, not someone she has welcomed into her close-knit family.

The walls in the house are not soundproof. Our conversation was not as private as it should have been.

The teasing and ease are gone.

And because she’s always been so effortlessly warm, it feels almost brutal, even to me.

I stop near the island, suddenly unsure of myself in my own kitchen.

“Morning,” I say, my voice still a bit scratchy.

She turns immediately, and her whole body seems to brighten up on seeing me.

“There she is.” She sets the spatula down. “Did you sleep well?”

“I think so.”

“You think so,” she repeats, a faint smile touching her mouth. “It’s ten o’clock, so that’s a yes, then.”

Amelie kicks in the swing as if she agrees. I lean down automatically, brushing my fingers over her stomach again. She makes a pleased little sound.

“Tea,” I murmur.

A moment later, a large hand dusted with dark hair places my favourite mug in front of me—cream, with the tiny blue flowers. I don’t spare him a glance.

I wrap both hands around it and breathe in. It’s perfect, just the way Mum always makes it.