It could have been worse: a car/boat/plane crash . . . but I was irritated. I’d been anticipating spending the evening alone with Max. Not in a romantic way—I’d long since realized a sexual preference for Freya—but I could have subtly mentioned the benefits of sharing custody with Jamie and Brian, if not handing Maggie over to them altogether. And I needed a respite from the baby. Other than the trip to Jamie’s store, it had been another long, dull day of feeding, burping, and changing diapers.

“I’ll crash at a hotel tonight,” he continued. “And since I’m here . . .”

Shit.

“. . . I thought I’d spend the day tomorrow. Catch up with some friends. But I’ll be on the evening ferry. For sure.”

“Great,” I snapped. “Sounds fun. Have a nice time.” I hung up the phone and threw a bamboo baby rattle across the room in frustration. It hit the plaster with a clatter and shake, the bulb splitting, spreading tiny beans all over the hardwood floor. Maggie let out a startled squeak from her crib on the other side of the wall. Shit.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

Thankfully, after a few hiccupping coughs, Maggie returned to her slumber, oblivious of my tantrum.

I realized that hunger might be contributing to my sour mood. My last meal had been snatched around eleven as I’d prepared for my trip to Hawking Mercantile. I went into the kitchen, ignoring the dirty dishes littering the counters and filling the sink. A look in the fridge revealed two prepared baby bottles, a jar of pickles, a carton of oat milk, a bag of chia seeds, and a box of greens. The cost of a restaurant delivery this far out of town would be astronomical. My stomach growled angrily, and I felt a surge of desperation. I could make a spinach, pickle, and chia-seed salad, or I could call my mother.

“They left you alone with a two-week-old baby?”

“She’s three weeks.”

“How can they leave their daughter when she’s so tiny? It’s not natural.”

This was coming from a woman who breastfed a first grader, so I took it with a grain of salt. “Can you bring me some food? I don’t want to drag Maggie to the grocery store.”

“They left you with nothing to eat? When are they coming back?”

“Can you bring me something or not?” I grumbled.

“I’ll send your dad over.”

Within the hour, he was there, carrying a ceramic bowl covered in beeswax-coated fabric and warm naan bread wrapped in a tea towel. I could smell curry and cumin and turmeric.

“Brought your favorite.”