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Damn.

She looked spent.

Hair thrown up any kind of way.

Sports bra.

Milk stains around both nipples.

Faja wrapped tight around her stomach underneath some loose pajama pants.

No makeup.

And behind her, the house looked like a fucking baby store had exploded.

Bottles on the coffee table.

Receiving blankets.

A breast pump.

Diapers.

Little clothes.

A half-empty water bottle.

Some food container sitting open.

“What?” she snapped.

I looked at her.

“Damn, Heather. You good?”

Her face twisted.

“Nigga, I just had a fucking baby and his dad is nowhere near here to help. The fuck you think?”

Here we go.

I stepped inside.

“I’m trying, Heather.”

“No the fuck you not.”

She closed the door behind me.

“I been calling you.”

“I was working.”

“You always working.”

“Because I have a fucking job.”

“And I have a fucking newborn!”