We’ve been home with Bee for a little over a week now. It’s been a surprisingly easy adjustment, mostly because Beckham is such good help, but I still have moments throughout the day where I find myself thinking, Holy shit, I’m a mom.
I crack my eyes open, my internal alarm clock alerting me to the fact that it’s time for Bee to eat. But when I look into her bassinet, she’s gone, and so is Beckham.
With a groan, I rise from the bed. My shirt is askew, a boob nearly popping out. I right the fabric, which is pointless since I’m just going to yank a boob out anyway.
After tiptoeing out of the room, I find them in the nursery.
Beckham is seated in the rocker, using his foot to lightly push them back and forth. He holds the baby in one arm, a kids’ book in the other, reading to her.
“What are you two doing?” I ask, even though it’s pretty obvious.
He closes the book and sets it on the small table by the chair. “She woke up early, so I thought I’d keep her entertained for a bit.”
He gets up so we can switch places, then puts Bee into my arms.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this,” I admit, rubbing her cheek, then her fingers. I help her latch on, wincing a bit.
Beckham sits down on the floor by my feet. “Me either.” He rubs my knee in a gentle, massaging motion. “I can’t believe it, but I fucking love being a dad.”
“Speaking of dads . . .” I hesitate, not sure he wants to, or is even ready to, have this conversation. “You haven’t told me what you decided to do with your dad. You have decided, haven’t you?”
He’s been tasked with making the decision on what to do with the body, since his father didn’t have any sort of plans or wishes in place to be executed. That’s put the decision-making squarely on Beckham’s shoulders.
He rubs his jaw, letting out a weary sigh. “My birth mom was buried, but there’s no burial plot available anywhere near her, so I decided to have him cremated.”
“You can talk about it with me. I want you to know that.”
“There’s not much to say. He’s gone now, and I can only hope that he’s been reunited with my birth mom.”
“I wish he could’ve met Bee.”
“Me too.” He leans his head back to look at us. “He would’ve loved her. I know it. I mean, look at her. She’s perfect. Who wouldn’t love her?”
My parents, I want to say. I bite my tongue, not wanting to give voice to those words, because their opinion doesn’t matter. I’ve always known they weren’t the best parents, but it was okay. Now I realize how truly awful they are, and I don’t want them in my life or Bee’s.
“You’re thinking about them, aren’t you?”
I sigh, tracing the shape of Bee’s ear with my index finger. Long, dark lashes fan her cheeks as she gulps down the milk greedily. “Yes. I know I shouldn’t give them a second thought, but it’s hard not to when I look at her. I would never want to be like them. I could never say the things they have to her.”
“That’s because you’re a good person and they’re not.”
“Thanks.” I know I shouldn’t need to hear that, but sometimes the reminder is necessary that I’m not like them.
When Bee is finished feeding, I pass her off to Beckham to burp her.
She belts out a burp loud enough for a grown man, and Beckham laughs. “That’s a ten out of ten, Bee. Good job.”
The baby snuggles into his neck, going right back to sleep. He carries her back to the bedroom, then lays her in the bassinet. George and Cheddar watch us with annoyance for daring to disturb their beauty sleep.
“Come on,” Beckham says, urging me toward the bed. “Try to get some sleep while you can. She’ll be hungry again before you know it.”
He’s right. She nurses all the time, and since I’m her sole source of food, it’s exhausting.
I settle into bed, Beckham soon joining me. He scoots over, wrapping an arm around me to spoon me against him. His lips press against my neck in a soft kiss. A lot of times with these feedings, I find myself having trouble going back to sleep, but this time, I shut my eyes and don’t open them until it’s time to feed her again.
