The fourth week, something shifted.
Not in Christabel.
In Damien.
He stopped trying to fix her and started trying to understand her.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
Lena had been crying for three hours. Nothing worked. Feeding. Changing. Rocking. Walking. Singing. The colic had returned with a vengeance, and the baby's screams echoed through the penthouse like a siren.
Christabel was pacing.
Her hair was a mess. Her shirt was stained. Her eyes were red from crying.
Damien stood in the doorway.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wanting to help.
"I can't do this," Christabel said.
"You can."
"I can't."
"You've been doing it for three hours."
"I've been failing for three hours."
---
He walked to her.
Took Lena from her arms.
The baby screamed louder.
"I've got her," he said.
"She doesn't want you."
"She doesn't want anyone."
"Then why are you taking her?"
"Because you need a break."
"I don't need a break. I need her to stop crying."
"You can't control that."
"I should be able to."
"Why?"
"Because I'm her mother."
He looked at her.
"Being her mother doesn't mean you can control everything. It means you show up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
---
Christabel sank onto the couch.
Put her face in her hands.
"I'm failing," she said.
"You're not."
"I can't make her happy."
"You don't have to make her happy. You just have to keep her alive."
"That's not enough."
"It's everything."
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were red. Her face was blotchy. Her nose was running.
"I don't feel like everything."
"You don't have to feel it." He sat beside her, Lena still screaming in his arms. "You just have to be it."
---
The baby cried for another hour.
Damien walked. Bounced. Swayed.
Christabel watched.
She watched the way he held their daughter. The way he whispered to her. The way he didn't give up even when nothing worked.
"You're good at this," she said.
"I'm terrible at this."
"You're still here."
"So are you."
"I'm sitting on the couch."
"You're watching. You're learning. You're resting."
"I'm hiding."
He stopped walking.
Turned to face her.
"You're not hiding. You're surviving. There's a difference."
---
Lena finally stopped crying.
Exhausted. Spent. She fell asleep in Damien's arms, her tiny body limp, her breath soft.
"She's out," he said.
"Don't move."
"I won't."
"Don't breathe."
"I'll try."
Christabel laughed.
The sound was rusty. Broken. But real.
"I forgot what that felt like," she said.
"What?"
"Laughing."
He sat beside her.
Lena still in his arms.
"You should do it more often."
"I should do a lot of things more often."
"Like what?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"Like sleep. Like eat. Like remember that I'm a person, not just a mother."
---
That afternoon, Damien made her a plate of food.
Not because she asked. Because she needed it.
"Eat," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
She looked at the plate.
Eggs. Toast. Fruit.
"You made breakfast?"
"It's noon."
"You made breakfast at noon."
"I made food. Eat it."
She picked up the fork.
Took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
"It's good," she said.
"It's eggs."
"It's good eggs."
He sat across from her.
Watched her eat.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
---
She ate half the plate.
Pushed it away.
"I can't finish."
"That's okay."
"I used to be able to eat a whole plate."
"You used to not be keeping a tiny human alive."
She looked at him.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're Christabel."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
That night, Lena slept for six hours.
The longest stretch yet.
Christabel woke before the baby.
But this time, she didn't panic.
She walked to the crib.
Stood over her daughter.
Watched her chest rise and fall.
"She's beautiful," Damien said from the doorway.
"She's perfect."
"She's ours."
Christabel turned to look at him.
"I'm scared," she said.
"I know."
"I'm scared I'm not going to be enough for her."
"You're already enough."
"How do you know?"
"Because she's alive. Because she's growing. Because she smiles when she sees you."
"She smiles at everyone."
"She smiles differently at you."
---
He walked to her.
Stood beside her.
They looked down at their daughter together.
"I didn't think I could love anything this much," Christabel said.
"Neither did I."
"It's terrifying."
"It's everything."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"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 be here."
---
The next morning, Christabel called Dr. Reid.
"Can we have another session?" she asked.
"Of course."
"Today?"
"I have an opening at two."
"I'll be there."
---
She went alone.
Damien stayed with Lena.
The drive to the therapist's office was quiet. The city was gray. The rain was falling.
Dr. Reid was waiting.
"You came back," she said.
"I said I would."
"You said you'd think about it."
"I thought about it."
"And?"
"And I'm tired of being afraid."
---
The session was different this time.
Christabel talked less about the baby and more about herself.
About the woman she used to be. About the woman she was becoming. About the fear that she was losing herself in motherhood.
"I used to be dangerous," Christabel said.
"You still are."
"I used to be powerful."
"You still are."
"I used to know who I was."
Dr. Reid leaned forward.
"Who were you?"
Christabel was quiet for a moment.
"I was the woman who killed a man with her bare hands."
"And now?"
"Now I'm the woman who can't get her baby to stop crying."
---
Dr. Reid smiled.
"Those aren't different women. Those are the same woman in different circumstances."
"It doesn't feel the same."
"It never does." Dr. Reid set down her pen. "But you're still in there, Christabel. The woman who killed. The woman who loved. The woman who survived. She's not gone. She's just... adapting."
"To what?"
"To being a mother."
---
When the session ended, Christabel drove home.
The rain had stopped. The sun was breaking through the clouds.
She walked into the penthouse.
Damien was in the living room. Lena was in his arms. Both of them were looking out the window.
"How was it?" he asked.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Not good. Helpful."
She walked to him.
Took Lena from his arms.
Held her daughter against her chest.
"I'm still scared," she said.
Lena cooed.
"I know," Christabel said. "You don't understand. You're too small. But I'm trying. I'm trying so hard."
Lena smiled.
Christabel cried.
Damien put his arm around both of them.
"That's all she needs," he said.
"What?"
"For you to try."
---
That night, they put Lena to bed together.
Not separately. Not taking turns.
Together.
Damien read a story. Christabel sang a song. Lena fell asleep between them, her tiny body warm and soft and perfect.
"She's going to be okay," Christabel said.
"She's going to be more than okay."
"Are we?"
He looked at her.
"We're going to try."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have.