I reached into the crib. For the first time, I didn’t pick her up because she was screaming or because she needed a change. I picked her up because I needed to hold her.
She was so light, yet she felt like she weighed a ton. As I pulled her against my chest, she tucked her head into the crook of my neck. Her skin smelled like milk and ivory soap. She felt warm—the same warmth I had felt in the hospital, the warmth I had resented because it wasn’t Marina’s. But now, I realized it was Marina’s. This was the heat of her blood, the rhythm of her heart, the legacy of her sacrifice.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed into the baby’s thin hair. “I’m so sorry, April.”
I walked over to the window. The moon was hanging low over the neighborhood, silvering the tops of the trees. For the first time since the funeral, I didn’t feel like I was drowning. I felt like I had finally reached the surface.
I sat in the rocking chair—the one Marina had picked out because it had “good lumbar support for long nights.” I had avoided this chair like it was made of thorns. Now, I sat back and began to rock.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
“Your mommy was very smart,” I told the baby, my voice thick with tears. “And very stubborn. She tricked me, April. Even from heaven, she’s still bossing me around.”
The baby looked up at me, and for a fleeting second, I saw it—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. It was exactly how Marina looked when she was about to tell a joke.
I stayed there for hours. I watched the sun begin to bleed over the horizon, turning the sky from a bruised purple to a hopeful gold. My mother came into the room at 6:00 AM, likely expecting to find me in a state of collapse. She stopped in the doorway, seeing me with April asleep in my arms, the red bracelet bright against her pale skin.
