Chapter 16 - FEEDING ELARA
For months, I could not tolerate anyone commenting on how I fed Elara.
Breastfeeding.
Bottle.
Schedule.
Amount.
Every ordinary suggestion sounded like Sabina.
You’re just a womb for her.
Dr. Morris noticed.
So did my lactation consultant.
“Do you want advice?”
That question helped.
Sometimes:
yes.
Sometimes:
no.
Permission rebuilt ordinary care.
Elara grew.
Healthy.
Chubby wrists.
A laugh that started silently before sound arrived.
I returned to work part-time when she was five months old.
My choice.
Callan stayed home more during his career break.
No family nurse appointed by Sabina.
We hired a nanny ourselves after background checks.
Paid from our own household income.
The continuity fund reimbursed some eligible childcare during the legal transition.
We documented it.
Boring paperwork became comforting.
Then postpartum anxiety hit me.
Not because Sabina predicted it.
That distinction mattered.
I had intrusive fears about someone taking Elara.
I checked doors.
Hospital portal.
Nanny camera.
Court orders.
Normal concern became too much.
I told Dr. Morris.
Therapy.
Treatment.
No shame.
Sabina’s earlier strategy memo had tried to weaponize the possibility of postpartum mental-health needs.
For a while I resisted help because I feared proving her right.
That was dangerous.
My therapist said:
“Having anxiety does not validate someone who planned to use anxiety against you.”
Exactly.
I got help.
I improved.
When Elara was nine months, I slept six hours without checking the monitor.
Victory.
Then one night Callan asked:
“Do you still think I might choose Mom?”
I answered honestly.
“Sometimes my body does.”
He nodded.
“What can I do?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Not grand gestures.
May you like
Consistency.
He did.
