out, piece by piece. Not dramatically. Worse than that—factually. From the first day my mother arrived, she criticized everything. Lily was holding Noah wrong. Bathing him wrong. Feeding him wrong. Resting wrong. Healing wrong. If Lily said she was tired, my mother called her weak. If she asked for privacy while pumping, my mother said modesty was childish. If Noah cried in my mother’s arms, somehow that became proof Lily was making him anxious.
“She told me I was lucky she was here,” Lily said, wiping her face. “She said if anyone saw how I really was, they’d think I wasn’t fit to be a mom.”
My mother set the blanket down carefully, as if keeping her hands busy might make her appear reasonable. “Postpartum women can be fragile. I was trying to help her snap out of it.”
I stared at her. “By grabbing her hair next to my
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