ANNY
Thirty-six hours after my daughter is born, a nurse teaches me how to pump milk for a baby who is not in the hospital.
She labels each container NIKOLINA ADAMS and stores it in the neonatal freezer.
“We’ll keep everything ready for when she comes back,” the nurse says.
Not if.
When.
I hold on to that word after she leaves.
My body already knows I gave birth. My abdomen aches, my breasts fill, and every instinct searches for a weight that is no longer against me. Producing milk is the only thing I can do for Nikolina from this room. I refuse to let the containers remain empty.
Oliver sits beside the window with his shoulder immobilized and a bandage above his ear. The doctors diagnosed a concussion but could not convince him to remain in his own room. He has spent the night ans
