Chapter 16 - FOOD, SLEEP, AND ORDINARY THINGS
The strangest part of recovery was how ordinary it became.
Rosalie ate.
Slept badly.
Teethed.
Screamed in the car.
Loved ceiling fans.
None of that cared about trusts.
I returned to work gradually.
My own career.
Graphic? Need pick. Let's say museum exhibition designer? We can keep generic professional work. Not needed.
I had postpartum anxiety.
Real.
Diagnosed.
That terrified me because Lucinda had planned to accuse me of instability.
For two weeks I resisted therapy.
Then Naomi said something useful:
“Getting treatment does not retroactively validate fraud.”
Correct.
I went.
Medication not needed initially.
Therapy.
Sleep support.
Shared night shifts.
My anxiety improved.
I learned a distinction Lucinda never respected:
Needing help does not surrender authority.
When Rosalie was six months old, I left her with a nanny for three hours.
I checked my phone fourteen times.
At nine months:
four times.
At one year:
once.
Progress.
Stellan’s anger work continued too.
He stopped treating rage as proof of loyalty.
At a family gathering, one uncle called Maribel “baby thief.”
Stellan said:
“Don’t.”
The uncle looked confused.
“She literally—”
“She committed serious wrongdoing. She is serving consequences. We do not need nicknames.”
Correct size.
I noticed.
Later:
“Thank you.”
“For defending Maribel?”
“For defending reality.”
He smiled.
Then he made dinner.
May you like
Burned it.
Reality remained mixed.
