Sunday morning, Maya woke up in her apartment for the first time since giving birth.
The hospital had finally released her Saturday evening. The doctor had been reluctant—“You just delivered, you need to rest”—but Maya couldn’t stay in that room anymore. Couldn’t look at the empty bassinet for another second.
A victim advocate had driven her home. Had helped her inside, made sure she had food in the fridge, left her with a stack of pamphlets about grief counseling and trauma support.
Maya had thrown them in the trash the moment she left.
Now she sat on her couch in the same clothes she’d worn home from the hospital, staring at the nursery corner she’d set up in her studio apartment. A borrowed crib from a coworker. A small changing table from Goodwill. A package of newborn diapers stil
