The second week was not easier.
But it was different.
The fog of the first week had lifted slightly. Christabel could see more clearly now. Not clearly enough to feel like herself. But clearly enough to know that she wasn't alone.
Damien was there.
Every night. Every feeding. Every time she woke up crying for no reason she could explain.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer solutions. Didn't try to fix her.
He just held her.
And somehow, that was enough.
---
"You're staring," she said.
It was 3 AM. Lena was asleep. The nursery was dark. Damien was sitting in the rocking chair, watching his wife sleep on the small cot they had moved into the nursery.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
She sat up.
The blanket fell away from her shoulders.
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
"I asked first."
He stood.
Walked to the cot.
Sat on the edge.
"I can't sleep," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because every time I close my eyes, I'm afraid she's going to stop breathing."
Christabel's face softened.
"She's fine."
"I know."
"The doctor said she's healthy."
"I know."
"Then why are you afraid?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because I've never had anything worth losing."
---
She took his hand.
Pressed it to her chest.
"You're not going to lose her."
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't let you."
He looked at her.
Her eyes were dark and deep and full of something that looked like certainty.
"You can't control everything."
"I can control this."
"How?"
"By being here. By watching her. By loving her so much that nothing bad dares to come near her."
"That's not how the world works."
"It's how our world works."
---
Lena stirred.
Not crying. Just moving. Her tiny arms stretched above her head. Her legs kicked at the blanket.
Damien stood.
Walked to the crib.
Looked down at his daughter.
"Hi, baby," he whispered.
Lena opened her eyes.
Looked at him.
"Hi," he said again.
She smiled.
Not a gas smile. A real one.
Damien felt something crack inside his chest.
"You're going to be trouble," he said.
Lena cooed.
"You're going to be just like your mother."
Lena kicked her legs.
"God help the world."
---
Christabel appeared beside him.
"She smiled at you."
"She smiled at both of us."
"No." Christabel shook her head. "She was looking at you. She knows who you are."
"She knows who we are."
"She knows you're her father."
Damien looked at his wife.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
"Neither do I."
"We're going to mess her up."
"Probably."
"She's going to need therapy."
"Definitely."
They laughed.
And for a moment, the fear faded.
---
The next day, Christabel's sister came again.
Sarah brought more food. More flowers. More practical help.
But this time, she also brought something else.
A therapist.
"I'm not seeing a therapist," Christabel said.
"You need to."
"I don't."
"You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're crying all the time."
"I have a newborn."
"Other people have newborns. They don't stop being themselves."
Christabel looked at her sister.
"I'm not other people."
"No." Sarah touched her face. "You're my sister. And I love you. And I'm not going to watch you fall apart."
"I'm not falling apart."
"You're already falling." Sarah's voice was gentle. "Let someone help you put the pieces back together."
---
Damien watched from the doorway.
He had called Sarah. Had asked her to bring the therapist. Had known that Christabel would say no if he suggested it.
She needed her sister.
She needed someone who loved her without wanting anything from her.
He couldn't be that person.
Not right now.
Right now, he was part of the problem.
---
Christabel agreed to one session.
Just one.
She sat on the couch in the living room. The therapist sat across from her. Damien waited in the nursery with Lena.
"How are you feeling?" the therapist asked.
"Tired."
"More than tired?"
"I don't know."
"You've been through a lot. The birth was hard. The baby has colic. You're not sleeping."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
The therapist leaned forward.
"Christabel. You're allowed to not be fine."
---
Christabel was quiet for a long moment.
The city hummed below them.
Somewhere in the building, Lena cried.
"I'm scared," Christabel said finally.
"Of what?"
"Of everything." Her voice cracked. "Of not being a good mother. Of not being a good wife. Of losing myself completely."
"You haven't lost yourself."
"Then where am I?"
The therapist smiled.
"You're right here. In this room. Asking for help."
"I'm not asking for help."
"You're talking to me. That's the first step."
---
The session lasted an hour.
Christabel cried. The therapist listened. Damien paced the nursery, Lena in his arms, both of them waiting.
When it was over, Christabel walked to the nursery.
Stood in the doorway.
"She wants me to come back," Christabel said.
"Do you want to go back?"
"I don't know."
"You don't have to decide today."
"I know."
She walked to him.
Took Lena from his arms.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For being like this. For not being stronger."
"You're the strongest person I know."
"I don't feel strong."
"You don't have to feel strong." He kissed her forehead. "You just have to keep going."
---
That night, Lena slept for four hours straight.
The longest stretch since she had been born.
Christabel woke before the baby.
Panicked.
"She's not breathing," she said, rushing to the crib.
"She's breathing." Damien was beside her. "Look. Her chest is moving."
Christabel stared at her daughter.
Lena's chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.
"She's okay," Damien said.
"She's okay."
"She's sleeping."
"She's sleeping."
Christabel leaned against him.
"I thought—"
"I know."
"I thought I lost her."
"You didn't."
"I can't lose her."
"You won't."
---
Lena woke an hour later.
Hungry. Crying. Demanding.
Christabel lifted her from the crib.
Held her against her chest.
"Good morning, little one," she said.
Lena cried.
"I know," Christabel said. "You're hungry. You're wet. You're cold. I'm sorry. I'm learning."
Lena stopped crying.
Looked up at her mother.
Her dark eyes. Her tiny fingers. Her soft, perfect face.
"I love you," Christabel whispered. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
Lena smiled.
Christabel cried.
Damien put his arm around both of them.
"This is us," he said.
"This is us," Christabel agreed.
"Broken. Healing. Together."
She looked at him.
"Yes," she said. "Together."
---
The second week ended the way it began.
With a crying baby. With exhausted parents. With the kind of love that didn't know what it was doing but refused to give up.
They weren't okay.
But they were trying.
And trying was enough.
For now.