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Chase: At least she’s cute

Chase: She looks exactly like all three of us as babies

Ollie: There’s always a silver lining

Chase: I wonder who her dad is

Ollie: There’s no father marked on her birth certificate

Chase: I still wonder, you know? Anyway, I better get going as we have another meeting in five

Ollie: Here’s one more photo to make you smile

Ollie: *sends a photo of Tilly smiling*

I push myself up from the comfy couch and head to the kitchen. A small mountain of used baby bottles waits by the sink. The water runs hot over my hands as I start scrubbing. For a few blissful minutes, the repetitive motions quiet my mind.

Beyond the wall in the living room, Tilly starts making noise. At first, it's a little fussing from the bassinet; then within a minute, my niece wails as if her entire little world depends on it.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I call, abandoning the half-cleaned bottle in the sink.

I make my way to her and gently rock the bassinet. “Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur in a low, soothing voice. Tilly’s cries only grow louder, her face scrunched bright red, while her little fists wave angrily through the air.

“That bad, huh?”

Carefully, I lift her into my arms and sway side to side. She’s warm and impossibly small against me, her cries hitching between sharp little breaths. I check her diaper first, balancing her awkwardly against one arm before confirming it’s still dry. But she keeps crying. I’m desperate and truly need help, fast.

In the kitchen, I grab a can of formula with my free hand and start making a bottle. I know the instructions like the back of my hand now. I move on autopilot and feed Tilly the moment it’s ready. The crying is replaced by eager gulps.

I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding before carrying her back to the couch, settling in once she’s calm. “So, you were hungry, huh? I definitely should’ve known that based on the crying, right?”

She stares at me with those big, round eyes. Every cry feels like a riddle with too many answers, and none of the right ones, as I keep guessing and hope to land on the best one before we both fall apart. Yet, moments like this feel a little like progress, built out of sleepless nights and trials and errors, but progress all the same.

I’m slowly learning what she needs from me.

After finishing her bottle, Tilly squirms before falling asleep right in my arms. I’m too scared to put her down in case she wakes up, so I lean back with her tugged to my chest and close my eyes.

A loud noise jolts me awake. Tilly startles in my arms and immediately shares her very strong opinions about being interrupted mid-nap. I groan, blinking through the haze of sleep as I tighten my hold on her instinctively. My neck aches from the awkward angle I’d fallen asleep in on the couch. Squinting across the room, I check the vintage clock hanging on the wall.

“Tills,” I murmur, pushing myself upright, careful not to jostle her too much. “Peyton will be here in less than two hours. We need to clean up…” I grimace as the words leave my mouth. “I can’t believe I said we. You can’t even walk. I’ll handle everything as always.”

The kid answers with an indignant wail. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I start singing softly under my breath about little babies and how everything will be okay. The lyrics to Eminem’s “Mockingbird” have been stuck in my head ever since Livia left Tilly in my care. They loop through my mind whenever things feel like they might rip apart at the seams. My eyes burn a little, but I swallow the feeling down.

“I know, I know,” I whisper, pressing my nose against Tilly’s soft hair. She smells of formula, sleep and something unbearably fragile I’m terrified of breaking. “Uncle Ollie’s got you. Now and always.”

Her cries soften into hiccuping breaths, and I keep singing, voice low and rough with sleep, until her tiny body finally relaxes against my chest again. The trust she has in me hits harder than it should, making my throat tighten. I blink quickly and force myself to stand before setting her down.

As I do laps around the apartment, I clear surfaces and shove trash into a bag. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror on my way to the bathroom and flinch. My hair is a mess and my skin dull with dark circles carved deep under my eyes. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in days…because I haven’t.

“Wow,” I mutter to myself. “Absolutely thriving.”

Back in the living room, I grab the bassinet holding Tilly and set them outside the bathroom door. I leave it open, positioning everything so I can see her as I wash up.

The shower sputters to life, warm water hitting my shoulders as steam blooms around me. I wash quickly, scrubbing away the last three days. When the shampoo finally rinses out, I let my forehead rest against the tile and close my eyes. For one quiet moment, I just breathe and Eminem’s lyrics come back to me. The song plays on in my head, softer now, its melody haunting.

I'm not the praying kind, but the current state of my life has turned me into someone who stands in the shower pleading with a higher power that I'm enough and won't screw this up. There isn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do for that little girl. No line I wouldn’t cross and no fear I wouldn’t swallow whole if doing so meant keeping her safe. Somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, Tilly has rooted herself into the center of my heart so completely that the thought of failing her feels unbearable.

“I can do this,” I whisper to myself. “I can buy her a mockingbird if that's what's needed. I’ll give her the world.”