Page 54
“On it.”
She shoots him a quick approving look before crouching in front of me and taking my hands. “Stabbing or crushing pain?”
“Both.”
“Love that for you,” she mutters sympathetically.
Ollie brings me a large mug of tea. I take a sip and let out a satisfied groan at how the warmth of the drink fills me. The heating pad arrives a moment later, and he drapes it carefully over my lower abdomen. It’s not enough to erase the pain, but enough to blunt its edges. I sigh in relief, my shoulders finally loosening.
“You can go now,” Rose tells Ollie, her tone gentle but firm. He does as requested, taking one last long glance my way.
Rose, the angel she is, stays through the worst of the morning. She brings me cups of tea, regularly checks on the baby and gives me a massage that makes me groan in gratitude. We spend four hours alternating between the couch and the bed. When the cramps spike, she presses her palm into my lower back and reminds me to breathe. When the nausea creeps in, she cracks a window and rubs slow circles on my arms.
At one point I curl onto my side, knees drawn up, and let the tears fall. They spill out more from frustration than pain. I try to hide them from Rose, but she catches on quickly. She settles onto the edge of the bed, her hand finding mine.
“Talk to me.”
I scrub at my cheeks. “I'm fine.”
“Mhm.”
“I just…” My voice cracks. “I hate this.”
“The cramps?”
“The needing people part. Everyone had to rearrange their day because my uterus decided to throw a tantrum. I can't even stand up without someone hovering over me.”
Rose lets out a soft snort. “First of all, your uterus is absolutely committing felony assault, not a toddler tantrum. Second, do you know how many times you've shown up for other people without keeping score?” she asks, squeezing my hand.
I shrug, not saying a word. She tilts her head until I have no choice but to look at her. “You cook for people. You organize everything. You make yourself useful before anyone can ask. So why is it so hard to let someone do the same for you?”
“I don't know.”
“I think you do.”
Silence stretches between us. Finally I whisper, “I don’t want to seem like a burden. Not again.”
I hate this part most. Not the cramps or the nausea. The dependence. Asking for help has never come naturally to me.
Rose's expression softens and she brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “The right people don't think that because you have a bad day once in a while,” she says, her voice soothing. “They stay, rubbing your back while you cry over an organ that's actively trying to kill you.”
I laugh through the tears, and for the first time all morning, the knot in my chest loosens. Maybe she's right. Maybe accepting help doesn't automatically make me a burden.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the moment. Rose glances at the screen and groans. “Fishsticks. I completely forgot about my appointment this afternoon.”
She stands, but only after making sure my water bottle is full and the heating pad is still warm.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You helped so much by being here.”
“Text me if you need me tomorrow,” she says and presses a quick kiss to my forehead.
“I will.”
The apartment feels too quiet after Rose leaves. I stare down at my hands and try not to think about how useless I’ve been all day. Tilly fusses from the bassinet, and guilt twists sharper than the cramps. I should be the one getting up, handling this without needing a rescue team rotating through the apartment. But every time I try to move too quickly, pain drags through my stomach hard enough to make me dizzy.
That thought alone nearly makes me cry again and I have to hold in my tears when the front door opens.
Ollie steps inside, wearing his work clothes. “I’m no Rose, but you’ve got me for an hour,” he says, kicking off his shoes.
