The first night back from the hospital, I tried not to cry. In the dark, I squinted at the wall clock. The thick black hand hovered around the three. I lay propped up against pillows and towels. My baby’s body was hot and furious. Her little head fit in the palm of my hand. I was convinced I was holding her wrong. That if I could do it right, she would feed and rest and grow up healthy and strong. But my grip felt weak and wobbly. This might have been because I’d had a C-section and they’d cut through several layers of my flesh. Or because I am
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