“So you’re driving upstate again?”
She lunged for their toddler before he tumbled down the steps. She held him on her hip as his tiny limbs scissored in front and back of her body.
“I want to check out some real estate.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head in one fluid motion. “Something bigger that we can afford. There’s nothing around here.”
“The baby’s fifteen-month checkup’s today. They’ll give him shots.”
He ignored the baby’s tiny hands reaching out toward him and stared at the street. At seven in the morning, nothing stirred.
“You’ll be fine. You don’t need me.”
“It’s easier with two people if he’s fussy after the shots.” She stared at the back of his head, willing him to see how much the baby looked like him, how blue his eyes were, how his red hair lit up his face, but also to see her, to look at her like he used to, the way she was now.
The three-room cottage contained their whole world.
The baby pawed her breasts and whimpered. She shifted her weight.
The father didn’t turn. “While I’m gone, maybe you can straighten up the house, do some laundry. This is my last clean T-shirt,” he said pointing to his chest.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m off.” He brushed her cheek with his lips and kissed the baby’s head. “I’ll text you if I’m not coming back tonight.”
He bounced down the steps and jogged to his pickup.
She buried her face in the baby’s silky neck, breathing in his newness. She kissed his head in the same spot her husband had. The baby patted her cheek, blotting her tears.
They’d hardly made love since their son was born. But sometimes once is all it takes. She wanted to tell him her news but dreaded his reaction. Their place was crowded, all the toys, tiny clothes, and baby stuff. When the baby couldn’t sleep, his cries filled every minuscule sliver of space inside the house and drove her husband to get up, whatever the time, and do dishes or clean the bathtub. Anything to distract him from baby cries.
They’d lived contentedly in the tiny space for six years, but she’d wanted a baby so much. She’d needed one. Her body felt incomplete without one. Her pregnancy had been a joyful surprise that he seemed to share, but as the house filled with baby gear, he stubbed his toes and tripped on tiny obstacles. His trips away became more frequent.
The truck roared to life and pulled away.
“Love you,” she said.
She’d tell him later, soon, when he came home.
Suzanne C. Martinez’s fiction has appeared in Wigleaf, Vestal Review, The Citron Review, Gone Lawn, and The Broadkill Review, among others, and was nominated for Pushcart Prizes (2019, 2020), The Best of the Net (2020, 2024), and Best Short Fictions (2022). She was a finalist in the 2023 Tartts First Fiction Award and WTAW Press Alcove Chapbook Series 2024 Open Competition, as well as a semi-finalist in the Hidden River Arts-Eludia 2024 Award for her linked story collection. She lives in Brooklyn.