Roland wanted to name our daughter Beverly.
That was the one thing I refused.
I named her Wren.
Wren Celeste.
For my mother.
We brought Wren home on a Thursday.
The first week barely exists in my memory.
Feedings every two hours.
Exhaustion.
Pain.
Standing in the shower crying for reasons I couldn’t explain.
Roland returned to work three days after we came home.
“I can’t take more time,” he said. “The rest of the leave is unpaid. Mom says you’ll manage. She did.”
Beverly came Tuesday.
She held Wren for an hour.
Then told me the house looked terrible.
Suggested I put on makeup before Roland returned.
Warned me that I should get back into shape because “men notice.”
Then she left.
On Wednesday, our neighbor, Mrs. Adeyemi, placed a pot of chicken soup on the porch.
The note said:
For the new mama. Eat something.
