“You wanna try feeding him, honey?” the blonde nurse asks.
I nod as the nerves set in a little. I grew accustomed to carrying a baby while I was pregnant. But now that he’s out, a fully-fledged human being in his own right.
It terrifies me.
I am solely responsible for him.
In all the world, I am the only one he has.
I am the only one he can count on.
“It’s okay,” the blonde nurse reassures me. “Breast-feeding can be a little tricky the first time around, but you’ll get the hang of it.”
I smile, finding comfort in her soothing words. “What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Nurse Sedley,” she replies. “But you can call me Maria. And this is Annette.”
For the first time, I focus on the nurse that brought my son in to meet me for the first time. She’s dark-haired, like me, but her eyes are dark and husky, her lips full and blushing with color.
“I don’t remember anything about the labor,” I say.
“It was a C-section,” Annette tells me. “You were in no fit state to undergo a natural labor. But Dr. Farrow did a fantastic job. He stitched you up well. You will have pain for a few days, but you’ll heal.”
I nod hesitantly as I try to process all of that. “You were there?”
“I was,” she says. “I was the one who washed your little boy up and swaddled him. He has an amazing set of lungs on him.”
I smile, realizing I haven’t heard him cry yet. He’s been quiet in my arms for the longest time. I sit up a little straighter and shimmy down my hospital robe on one side.
Maria moves forward and holds my boy for a moment so I can get my right breast out. I’m aware suddenly how different my breasts feel at the moment. Heavier than I would have expected and larger than I’m used to.
“Your milk has come in nicely,” Maria comments.
I hold my son up to my breast and gently guide his mouth towards my nipple. He seems uncertain at first but Maria helps me wheedle his mouth open.
When he finally clamps down on me, I give a little yelp and cringe as the pain shoots through my nipple.
“It’s okay,” Maria coaxes. “Easy does it.”
It takes several minutes for me to get accustomed to the strange sensation. “This is… weird,” I admit.
Maria smiles. “It takes some getting used to,” she agrees. “I’ve had four babies and breast-feeding was a new experience each time.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. People don’t talk enough about how hard it is,” she tells me. “Everyone assumes it’s this natural art that just comes to you.”
I wince a little as the baby bites down on my nipple a little. “Wow, and he only has soft little gums.”
Annette rests a reassuring hand on my leg. “Trust me, darling: it’ll get easier.”
I brush the back of my knuckle against his velvety soft cheek. “He’s so beautiful.”
“He really is,” Annette agrees. “And those features! So different.”
“His father is Russian,” I say without thinking.
“Oh?” Maria blurts.
I look down at the baby to cover over my awkwardness. I probably shouldn’t have shared that with them, but it had just slipped out.
I sigh inwardly. Maybe I don’t have to be so nervous. After all, if Artem wanted to find me, he would have done so by now.
Why hasn’t he even tried?
I try not to let that thought consume me. But it hurts more than I’m willing to admit.
It hurts so bad some nights I can barely sleep.
He didn’t even try to fight for me.
I disappeared and he just… let me go.
“You wanna tell us about his father?” Maria questions, putting a hand on my arm. “Because you can. You can trust us.”
Can I trust anyone?
I look between the two women in front of me, and I’m struck by how much I want to tell them, how much I want to share my story with them. With someone. With anyone.
Because, honestly, I’m sick of being alone.
I’m sick of keeping people—good, kind, generous people—at arm’s length because I’m so scared of being found, of being betrayed.
“Don’t cry, honey,” Maria says. Only then do I realize I’ve got tears running down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to wipe away my tears.
“Did… did he do that to you?” Maria asks.
I stare at her with confusion. “What do you mean?”
I follow her gaze and notice that she’s staring at the bruise on my arm. I have no idea how I’d gotten it in the first place. Maybe from the fall in the bus depot? I can’t be sure.
I look up at her concerned eyes and I realize what she’s thinking. I’m about to correct her but I stop before I can find the words.
After all, what is the point?
I can’t give her details.
I can’t explain specifics. At least, not without also giving up my identity in the process.
The idea of Artem finding me is… confusing.
But the idea of Budimir finding me is downright terrifying.
Especially now that I have my little Phoenix.
“It’s complicated,” I tell Maria in the end.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she tells me. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
She helps me switch my son to my left breast, so he can feed evenly. Immediately, the tension that was mounting in my chest eases a little.
“Any thoughts on names?” Annette asks eagerly.
It takes me a second, but when the idea comes, it’s so perfect and fully formed that it’s a wonder I didn’t think of it months ago.
“Phoenix,” I say. “His name is Phoenix.”
My little bird.
Rising from the ashes of the house that Artem burned to the ground.
“Aw, honey,” Maria says, running her hand over Phoenix’s downy hair. “That’s perfect.”
“Love it,” Annette agrees.
I don’t even know if they’re just saying so for my benefit, but I appreciate their enthusiasm. For a moment, it make me feel less alone.
Then the doctor walks in, a tall, mustached man with feather-white hair and hooded eyes. Annette and Maria move aside so that he can examine me.
“Good afternoon,” he says, nodding towards me
