Part 3: The Appointment

At Ivy's first appointment, the waiting room was filled with soft blankets and tired parents. Daniel carried the bag, Lena drove us, and I held Ivy because I was not yet ready to let the car seat out of my sight.

The pediatrician checked her carefully and said she was doing well. She answered our questions without laughing at any of them. I had brought a page of notes; Daniel had brought three questions of his own. We compared answers afterward in the hallway.

“Mine was about hiccups,” he admitted.

“Mine too.”

We were still smiling when my phone rang. It was my manager at the museum, asking whether I had a moment to discuss a restoration project. The museum had received a collection of coastal maps, including one drawn by a surveyor whose work I had studied for years.

“I know you're on leave,” my manager said. “There's no expectation. I just thought you'd want to see it when you're ready.”

I did. I also felt guilty for wanting to see it so soon. Daniel noticed my expression after the call.

“What happened?”

I explained. “I love her. I also miss my work. That feels like something I shouldn't say out loud yet.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone keeps asking whether I can bear to leave her, and nobody asks whether I can bear to lose every other part of myself.”

He did not answer immediately. We walked to the car. Lena had moved her seat forward so I could reach Ivy from the back.

“Then let's ask the right question,” Daniel said. “What would you need in order to look at the maps without worrying about everything here?”

I needed more sleep, a plan for feeding, and confidence that someone else knew Ivy's routines. I also needed permission from myself to decide later.

We made no permanent arrangement that day. Instead, Daniel asked his office whether he could work from home on Fridays for the next month. I called the museum back and said I would visit for an hour in two weeks if I felt ready. Lena offered to come with me, but I asked her to stay with Ivy and Daniel instead. I wanted them to have practice together.

That weekend, Margaret came for tea. She asked about the appointment, and I told her what the pediatrician had said. She listened, then quietly slid a small notebook across the table.

Inside were notes from when Daniel was a baby: the songs he liked, the first time he slept through a storm, and a list of the people who brought food after his birth.

“My mother came every day,” she said. “I loved her, but I was afraid to tell her when I wanted to be alone.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She had cared for everyone for so long. I thought saying no meant I was ungrateful.”

Daniel turned a page. “You never told me that.”

“I didn't want to complain.”

I touched the edge of the notebook. “You can tell me when you feel left out. I can't promise we'll always agree, but I can listen.”

Margaret nodded. Then Ivy woke, and all three of us stood at once. We laughed, and Margaret sat back down.

“You go,” she told Daniel. “I'll wait until someone asks.”