“That’s not what I asked you.”
Maya’s face hardened.
“I’m only going out for a little while. He’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Linda looked past her, toward the closed apartment door.
“He’s not a puppy you can leave with a bowl of water. He’s a newborn.”
Maya rolled her eyes, but the elderly woman did not move.
“You’re not a bad girl because you’re tired,” Mrs. Linda said. “But you will become a bad mother if you keep pretending that he can survive without you.”
For a moment, Maya looked as though she was about to cry.
Then her phone vibrated.
The softness disappeared from her face.
“You don’t know what it feels like to live my life,” she said, and walked away.
By Friday, Maya had convinced herself that everyone was against her. Her mother called too often. Mrs. Linda watched too closely. The baby cried too much. The walls felt too narrow. Every bottle, every diaper, every sleepless hour seemed like proof that her youth had been stolen from her.
