In the bathroom for my first pee after the birth, I winced in pain as the urine coursed over my battered and stretched vagina. My belly flopped like a fleshy balloon. My breasts were swollen and sore and my face was still flushed from the exertion of pushing. But I felt drugged from happiness. Sheer elation. Giving birth was a thrill, and I was a mother. I felt high. I looked at my daughter, bundled up like a slug in her tiny car seat, and felt such a surge of love that I knew I would kill to protect her. Draw blood, slice off a man’s face or arm, if I had to. I finally understood what motherhood could do to a woman.

My milk came in three days later and she drank like a fiend, constantly hungry. I slept in spurts, had frantic dreams, then woke to feed her again. Omar stayed home for two weeks until we had a consistent schedule. He bathed and changed her, sang to her and carried her in and out of rooms. I saw how he loved her, this creature that resembled him more than she did me. They had the same eyes, dark brown hair. She was of my blood and his but she was more of his. Her cries were soothed by his lullabies, nursery rhymes, and her eyes blinked in emerald countenance. Omar was in love with his beautiful Alba.

How exquisite she was. Her tiny mouth which opened and closed when she yawned, her little fingers with white half moon nails, her arms which flailed in the air, the scent of her cheeks and neck, of milk from my bosom and the creaminess of the bath bubbles, the soft folds of flesh on her thighs, the thick tufts of hair on her head, the soft fontanel, beneath that, her brain, the soft pulse of her heart when I lay my ears next to her. How exquisite she was.

Months passed and she grew beautifully. I got into a rhythm for bath-time, feeding, playtime, nap, feeding, nap, walk, bath, bed. She learnt to turn, squirm and cry to get her way. Papa, too, was besotted with her. Evening walks with Alba up and down the roads from his house. How she laughed and smiled to the neighbours. Her hair bouncing in the wind, her chubby thighs so warm and smooth.

My father was alive again, he sat in the garden, reading to her, pointing at pages in books, he carried her when she fretted, sang to her. Omar and Papa, completely consumed by this child.