The Glass Between Them

Sarah crushed the prenatal vitamin into dust on the granite countertop, watching the powder settle like snow in the crevices. Three months postpartum, and she still couldn't swallow them without gagging—her body rejecting even the pretense of readiness.

She checked her iPhone again, though she knew there would be nothing new. Just another baby announcement from college friends, another breast-is-best article, another well-meaning voice reminding her she should be grateful, she should be healed, she should be whole by now. The screen glowed in the dim kitchen: 3:17 AM.

David appeared in the doorway, silhouette against the hallway light. "You're spiraling," he said, not unkindly.

She didn't deny it. Instead, she held out her palm, where her fingernails were bitten to the quick. "I'm still here. Just not the version you married."

He crossed the kitchen and took her hand, his thumb tracing the lifeline she'd stopped believing in. "She's sleeping," he said. "For the first time in a week. Let's sit on the porch."

Outside, the California air was cool on her skin. They sat on the step without speaking, his shoulder warm against hers, and for the first time since the baby came, Sarah felt something shift inside her—not healing, exactly, but the space where healing might eventually begin.

The vitamin dust remained on the counter. The iPhone remained dark in her pocket. But his palm was still warm against hers, and that, she thought, might be enough for now.