I stopped ordering takeout, cut corners on groceries, reused freezer bags, and line-dried baby clothes. Every time I thought, This is ridiculous, I swallowed it and kept moving.
Strange seasons are one thing. What Gerald did next was something else entirely.
At first, it started with comments through the bathroom door:
“How long are you going to be in there, Jennie?”
“Maisie’s crying.”
“Jennie, seriously, taking a vacation in the bathroom?”
I showered fast already. My hair was usually up; my soap was unscented. I was just trying to wash spit-up off my neck and remember what clean skin felt like.
“Jennie, seriously, taking a vacation in the bathroom?”
One morning, Gerald knocked while I was rinsing the conditioner. “You need to be out quicker. I can’t handle that crying.”
I opened the curtain a crack. “She’s your daughter too.”
Gerald’s face went flat. “I have a low tolerance for nonstop noise.”
“She’s six weeks old, Gerald.”
