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But more than she’d needed help with the baby, she’d needed someone to talk to. She’d always hated being alone. It made her anxious and twitchy.
Molly’s mind drifted back to that night. She’d been wearing the same sweatshirt and leggings for at least three days, and they were covered with leaked breast milk and spit-up stains...
Her arms ached from hours of holding her wailing baby, and a dark thought had crossed her mind: she could put Chloe in her bassinet, get in the car, and drive away. She could call the police and tell them there was a baby in the house, then hang up. She could leave and never come back.
No. She pressed her nose into the crook of Chloe’s neck and breathed in her sweet infant scent. She would never do that. But she would give anything—everything—to connect with just one person who knew how she felt at that moment.
Chloe settled down and Molly eased her into the bassinet. A tiny cry, a jerk of her arms—Molly held her breath—then she relaxed, and Molly released a long sigh. She knew she should sleep, but instead she settled on the couch and opened Instagram. The more she scrolled, the lonelier she felt; all these friends and family members had no idea what was going on in her life. She wanted to reach out to them. To connect.
On a whim, she took a selfie, then studied it. Her forehead was shiny, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair a mess. It wasn’t a flattering picture, but it was real. And in that moment, she wanted someone to know that this was her reality.
She started to type a caption. Hi, everyone, it’s been a while. My husband left me, my baby won’t sleep, and I might be losing my mind.
She deleted that, then started over. I’m so lonely and exhausted and I want to give up.
She deleted that, too. The sky had brightened outside, a few birds beginning their predawn singing. In the bassinet, Chloe stirred, found her thumb, and started sucking.
Molly began to type.
There’s no food in my refrigerator except a jar of Greek olives and an ancient casserole. I haven’t washed my hair in six days. I’m so tired I’ve started hallucinating—at least, I think I’m hallucinating. Either that or Ryan Gosling really is standing shirtless in my living room, saying, “Hey girl, there’s nothing sexier than a nursing bra.”
She smiled to herself and kept typing, letting the words pour out until the caption was full, then pressed post. Hardly anyone would read it, she was sure of that. It was a one-sided conversation, a shout into the void of the interwebs. But imagining someone out there, listening, had lessened her anxiety.
She dozed, then woke to Chloe fussing. As Molly heaved her red-faced infant into her arms, something caught her eye on her phone screen. An Instagram alert. A friend from way back in high school had commented on her post.
Hi Molly! This was hilarious and SO SO true. My little one is four months and I promise you, it gets better. If you ever need someone to commiserate with, I’m here. I hope you keep posting—you made me laugh so hard I might have peed a little.
Molly read the message, then read it again. She stood, patted Chloe’s back, and stooped to read the comment a third time, her smile widening as her eyes filled with tears.
Well, she had thought, that’s something.
Over time, that something became everything—a means to support herself and her daughter, her career, and her identity.
And now she was here, in her beautiful new home, starting a new life with a man she adored.
She turned and nearly stumbled over one of Scott’s dozen boxes. Yes, she adored him, but couldn’t he unpack his stuff? Swallowing her annoyance, she told herself she’d haul the boxes upstairs to the attic, let him go through them in his own time.
The first one she picked up was labeled PHOTO ALBUMS, and Molly bit back a sigh. In the attic, Durango’s summer heat might warp the photographs. But she had a shelf in her closet that was perfect.
The cracked yellowing tape peeled off easily. She lifted the albums out, spilling a few loose photos onto the carpet. One caught her eye: a much-younger Scott, sitting on a hospital bed with a dark-haired woman, a baby between them.
Molly leaned forward. She’d never seen a picture of Scott’s first wife. He almost never mentioned her, and when he did, his face would cloud over. Molly knew she had died in a tragic accident when Ella was around a year old. The grief of losing her had caused Scott to spend the next few years avoiding society, moving around the country. Molly thought she understood what had driven him to do that: the frantic desire to create a safe world for himself and his daughter. Her response to tragedy had been to seek more connection; Scott’s was to avoid it.
She leaned forward, studying Scott’s awkward smile in the photo. His wife seemed exhausted, but she was pretty—dark-haired and dark-eyed, even darker than Ella. Latina, maybe. They held the baby stiffly between them, as if neither could understand how they had ended up with her.
Molly remembered that feeling—the shocked uncertainty as the nurse placed her own baby girl in her arms. But she hadn’t had anyone to sit on the hospital bed with her, and the picture set off a deep longing in her chest. She didn’t have any pictures of her ex-husband with their baby. Whenever Chloe asked about her dad, Molly simply said he hadn’t been ready to be a daddy. How would she someday explain he hadn’t even stayed long enough to meet her? Molly had no idea where her first husband even lived now. The last time Jake had written, it had been to blast her for spreading lies about their marriage on social media.
You and I both know the story you’re telling isn’t the truth. But hey, if it makes you internet-famous, knock yourself out.
It wasn’t to make herself internet famous, she had written back. It was to support herself because he’d left her high and dry with a newborn and a house needing thousands of dollars of work. He hadn’t responded.
Footsteps echoed behind her, and Molly turned to see Ella at the office door.
“Hi!” Molly said. “Did you have a fun time at Lily’s? Are you hungry? I can slice you some apples.”
“No, thank you.” Ella paused, then pointed. “What’s that picture? Is it...”
Molly turned the photo to show her. “It’s your mom, right?”
