Chapter 19: The First Poopy Diaper
The light came in sideways through the blinds.
Thin slices of gold across the linoleum, across the crumpled sheets, across Tarek's face where he'd fallen asleep in the chair with his mouth open and his neck bent at an angle that would make him regret everything when he woke up.
Layla watched him for a moment. The stubble on his jaw. The way his hand was still wrapped around hers—loose now, but there. Even in sleep, he hadn't let go.
Then Amira woke up.
The cry was thin at first. A hiccup, a whimper, a sound like a question. Then it built—louder, sharper, more insistent. The kind of cry that meant business.
Tarek's eyes snapped open.
"What—" He looked around. Blinked. Focused on Layla. On the baby. "Is she okay?"
"She's hungry."
"She just ate."
"That was three hours ago."
He stared at her.
"Three hours?"
"You slept through it."
"I didn't—" He stopped. Looked at the clock on the wall. "I did."
"You were tired."
"I was supposed to stay awake."
"You were supposed to sleep. You're human."
He rubbed his face. His eyes were bloodshot. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck and then backed over again.
"I feel like I got hit by a truck," he said.
"That's parenthood."
"That's terrifying."
"Welcome to the rest of your life."
Amira's cry hit a new octave. Layla shifted in the bed—slowly, carefully, because her body was still a disaster zone—and pulled up her hospital gown. Her breasts were aching, heavy, leaking through the pads the nurse had given her.
"Okay, okay," she murmured. "I hear you."
She lifted Amira from the bassinet. The baby was red-faced, furious, her tiny fists clenched like she was ready to fight someone. Layla positioned her against her chest, and Amira latched on with the kind of aggression that suggested she'd been starving for weeks.
"Ow," Layla said.
Tarek leaned forward.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Less than yesterday."
"That's good."
"That's what they say."
"Who's they?"
"Everyone."
He nodded like that made sense. Then he stood up, stretched, and his spine made a sound like stepping on bubble wrap.
"Oh my God," he groaned.
"Told you."
"I'm twenty-one. I shouldn't feel like this."
"You're a father now. You're ancient."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
He kissed her forehead. His lips were dry and warm.
"No," he said. "I don't."
The feeding took twenty minutes. Amira nursed like she was on a deadline, her tiny jaw working, her eyes half-closed. When she was done, she pulled off with a wet pop and made a sound that was almost smug.
"Happy?" Layla asked.
Amira's face scrunched. Then relaxed. Then—
Layla felt it before she smelled it.
A rumble. A warmth spreading against her arm. And then the smell hit—earthy, sour, unmistakably biological.
"Oh no," Layla said.
Tarek looked up from his phone.
"What?"
"She pooped."
"She what?"
"She pooped. On me."
He moved closer. Sniffed. Immediately recoiled.
"Oh wow."
"Yeah."
"That's—"
"I know."
"Is that normal?"
"I think so."
"It smells like—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
He didn't. But his face said enough.
Layla looked down at Amira. The baby was perfectly content, her eyes closed, her body limp and satisfied.
"You," Layla said. "You did this."
Amira didn't respond.
"Okay." Layla took a breath. "Okay. I can do this."
She looked at Tarek.
"Where's the diaper bag?"
He found it. Brought it over. Set it on the bed like it was a bomb he didn't want to detonate.
"Do you know how to do this?" he asked.
"I watched a video."
"One video?"
"Three."
"That's not a lot."
"It's enough."
She shifted Amira onto the bed. The baby protested—a small, mewling sound—but didn't wake. Layla unbuttoned the onesie. Peeled it back.
The diaper was a disaster.
"Wow," Tarek said.
"Stop looking."
"I can't not look."
"Then help."
"How?"
"Get me wipes. And a new diaper. And that cream stuff."
He scrambled. Handed her things like a surgical nurse. She laid out a clean diaper under Amira's bottom, then reached for the wipes.
"Okay," she said. "Cold wipe. She's going to hate this."
She wiped.
Amira's legs kicked. Her face scrunched. But she didn't cry—just made an annoyed sound, like a tiny grumble.
"That's it," Layla murmured. "Almost done."
She wiped front to back. Careful. Thorough. The way the video said. The way her mother had told her over the phone, three weeks ago, when Layla had admitted she was terrified of this exact moment.
You'll figure it out, her mother had said. You'll have to.
She tossed the dirty wipe. Grabbed another. Cleaned the creases. Checked the umbilical stump—still there, still gross, still healing.
"Okay," she said. "Cream."
Tarek handed her the tube. She squeezed a dot onto her finger. Dabbed it on.
"Now the diaper."
She lifted Amira's legs. Slid the diaper under. Folded it over. Pressed the tabs down.
"Done," she breathed.
She looked up. Tarek was staring at her.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"You just—" He shook his head. "You just changed a diaper. In a hospital. With no sleep. And you didn't even flinch."
"I flinched."
"You didn't."
"I flinched on the inside."
He laughed. Soft. Tired. Real.
"You're amazing," he said.
"I'm surviving."
"That's the same thing."
She smiled. Buttoned Amira's onesie. Lifted her back to her chest.
"Next time," she said, "you're doing it."
Tarek's smile faltered.
"Me?"
"You."
"I don't know how."
"I'll teach you."
"What if I mess up?"
"You won't."
"What if I break her?"
"You can't break a baby."
"That's not true. I've seen—"
"Stop." She held up a hand. "You won't break her. You'll be fine. You'll be great."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because you love her."
He was quiet. Then he nodded. Slow. Serious.
"Okay," he said. "Next time. I'll do it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She held out her pinky. He stared at it.
"What are you doing?"
"Pinky promise."
"I'm not doing a pinky promise."
"You promised."
"I—"
"Pinky."
He sighed. Hooked his pinky around hers.
"Pinky promise," he muttered.
"Satisfied?"
"Ecstatic."
She laughed. Amira stirred. The sun climbed higher, and the room grew warmer, and somewhere down the hall, someone was rolling a cart with squeaky wheels.
"What time is it?" Layla asked.
"Almost eight."
"What time do I get discharged?"
"Doctor said noon."
"Four hours."
"Four hours."
She looked around the room. The crumpled sheets. The empty coffee cups. The diaper bag explosion on the floor. The clock that ticked too loud. The window that needed washing.
"I can't wait to go home," she said.
"Me too."
"But also—" She paused. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of being alone. With her. Without nurses."
"You won't be alone."
"You're leaving in two weeks."
"I took three."
"I know."
"Then what—"
"I'm scared of being a mother." The words came out fast. Before she could stop them. "I'm scared of doing this wrong. I'm scared of missing something. I'm scared of—"
"Layla."
She stopped.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Took her hand. Looked at her.
"You're already a mother," he said. "You've been one since the moment you saw that test."
"That was yesterday."
"And look at you."
"That's one day."
"A lot can happen in one day."
"I know."
"So trust yourself."
"I don't know how."
"Then trust me."
She looked at him. His tired eyes. His steady hands. His unshakable certainty.
"You're not the one who has to keep her alive," she said.
"No. But I'm the one who's going to be here. Every day. Every night. Every time you need me. I'm here."
She wanted to believe him. She did believe him.
But somewhere in the back of her mind—that small, dark corner where her fears lived—she knew the truth. He would leave. He would go back to Arizona. He would become a voice on the phone, a face on a screen.
And she would be alone.
"What?" he asked. "You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you go quiet and stare at the wall."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
She sighed.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
"Tarek—"
"Just tell me."
She looked down at Amira. Still sleeping. Still perfect.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered.
He was quiet for a moment.
"I know."
"Then don't."
"I can't."
"I know."
"I need to work. I need to—"
"I know."
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"Two weeks," he said. "I'll come back in two weeks."
"Two weeks is forever."
"It's fourteen days."
"Exactly. Forever."
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"We'll figure it out," he said.
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then how do you know we'll figure it out?"
"Because we have to."
She closed her eyes. Breathed him in. Let herself feel it—just for a second—the weight of everything she couldn't change.
Then Amira woke up again. Hungry again. And the world kept spinning.
"Okay," Layla said, opening her eyes. "You're helping with the next one."
"The next feeding?"
"The next diaper."
"I promised, didn't I?"
"You did."
"Then I will."
He stood up. Stretched. Walked to the window.
Outside, Milwaukee was waking up. Cars on the street. Birds on the wires. A city that didn't know or care that Layla's whole world had shifted.
"Hey," he said.
"What?"
"There's a Culver's down the street."
"I know."
"I'm going to get you that cheeseburger."
"Now?"
"You said you wanted one."
"That was in the middle of labor."
"And now you're not in labor. So."
She laughed. It felt foreign in her mouth—this lightness, this unexpected spark of joy.
"Get me a ButterBurger," she said.
"Fries?"
"Yes."
"Onion rings?"
"Obviously."
"Shake?"
"Turtle."
He grabbed his jacket. His keys.
"I'll be right back."
"You better."
"I will."
He walked to the door. Paused. Turned around.
"Layla."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For her."
He looked at Amira. At Layla. At the three of them, together, in this too-small room with the too-bright lights and the too-loud clock.
"For everything."
And then he was gone. The door swung shut. The room went quiet.
Layla looked down at her daughter.
"Your dad," she whispered, "is a good man."
Amira's eyes opened. Just for a second. Blue and unfocused and impossibly new.
"He's going to leave," Layla said. "But he'll come back. He promised."
Amira's eyes closed.
"He promised," Layla repeated.
She held her closer. The morning light grew brighter. And somewhere, down the street, Tarek was ordering a ButterBurger and a Turtle shake and probably crying again, and Layla was here, alone but not alone, scared but not paralyzed, waiting for the next thing.
The next thing came in the form of a nurse.
A different one this time—older, gray-haired, with a name tag that said Deb. She bustled in with a clipboard and a smile that looked genuine.
"How are we doing?"
"We're tired."
"That's normal."
"That's what everyone says."
"Because it's true."
Deb checked the monitors. Checked Layla's vitals. Checked Amira's weight.
"She looks great," Deb said. "Latching well. Gaining weight. You're doing something right."
"I'm doing my best."
"That's all anyone can do."
Layla looked at her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How long did it take you to feel like you knew what you were doing?"
Deb laughed.
"I'll let you know when it happens."
"Never?"
"I've been a nurse for thirty years. I've raised four kids. I still wake up some mornings and think, what am I doing?"
"That's not encouraging."
"It's honest."
Layla sighed.
"I just want to be good at this."
"You will be."
"How do you know?"
"Because you care." Deb checked the IV. Adjusted something. "The ones who don't care—those are the ones you worry about. The ones who care? They figure it out."
"When?"
"Eventually."
"That's vague."
"It's the truth."
Deb finished her rounds. Patted Layla's hand. Winked at Amira.
"Your husband's cute," she said.
"He's not my husband yet."
Deb raised an eyebrow.
"He's my fiancé. We had the nikkah, but not the wedding."
"Ah." Deb nodded. "Religious ceremony first?"
"Yes."
"So he's your husband."
"Religiously, yes."
"But not legally?"
"Not yet."
"Does it matter?"
Layla thought about it.
"No," she said. "I guess it doesn't."
"Then he's your husband."
"He is."
"Good." Deb headed for the door. "Because he looks at you like you hung the moon."
"Does he?"
"Honey, I've been married for thirty-two years. I know that look."
She left.
Layla sat in the quiet. Amira slept. The clock ticked. The sun rose higher.
He looks at you like you hung the moon.
She thought about that. About Tarek's face when he'd held Amira. About his tears. About his promises.
Maybe he did.
Maybe that was enough.
The door opened. Tarek came in with a white paper bag and a tray of drinks.
"I got extra fries," he said. "Just in case."
"Just in case what?"
"Just in case you wanted more."
"I always want more fries."
"That's what I thought."
He set the food on the table. Pulled up a chair. Unwrapped a burger.
"Here," he said. "Eat."
She did.
The first bite was heaven. The second bite was better. By the third bite, she was moaning.
"This is the best thing I've ever eaten."
"It's Culver's."
"It's the best thing I've ever eaten."
He watched her. Smiled.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm a disaster."
"You're beautiful."
"Look at me. I'm leaking. I'm sweaty. I smell like—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
She laughed. Almost choked on a fry.
"Eat your burger," she said.
He did.
They sat there. The three of them. The four of them, if you counted the fries. The sun climbed. The city hummed. And for a moment—just a moment—everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Then Amira woke up. Hungry again.
And Layla said, "Your turn."
Tarek froze.
"What?"
"You promised."
"I promised next time."
"This is next time."
"She just ate."
"There's only one thing that comes after eating."
He looked at Amira. At her tiny, scrunched face. At her flailing arms.
"I don't know how," he said.
"I'll teach you."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
He took a breath. Stood up. Rolled up his sleeves.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's do this."
Layla smiled.
"That's the spirit."
And he did.
He was terrible at it. He got poop on his wrist. He almost dropped the diaper. He used too many wipes and not enough cream and he forgot to fold the front down so the umbilical stump could breathe.
But he did it.
And when he was finished—when Amira was clean and dry and swaddled and content—he looked up at Layla with a face full of wonder.
"I did it," he said.
"You did."
"I changed a diaper."
"You did."
"That was—" He laughed. "That was terrifying."
"Now you know."
"Now I know."
He sat on the edge of the bed. Amira was in his arms, staring at him with her unfocused blue eyes.
"She's looking at me."
"She can't see you."
"She's looking at me."
"Okay."
"I think she likes me."
"She loves you."
"I think she loves me."
"She does."
He kissed her forehead. Amira's, not Layla's. Then Layla's.
"I love you too," he said.
"I know."
"How?"
"I just do."
They sat there. The fries were cold now. The shake was melting. The room was too small and too bright and too full of machines that beeped and hummed and reminded them that they were in a hospital, not at home.
But it was okay.
Maybe for the first time since she'd taken that test, Layla felt like it was okay.
"When we get home," she said, "we need to call my mother."
"We will."
"Before noon."
"Why before noon?"
"Because if we call after noon, she'll ask why we waited so long."
"Does it matter?"
"It always matters."
"Okay. Before noon."
"And your mother."
"We'll call her too."
"And my sisters."
"How many sisters do you have?"
"Four."
"Four?"
"Two on each side. It's complicated."
"Everything's complicated."
"You're just figuring that out?"
He laughed. Shook his head.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing. I just—" He looked at Amira. At Layla. At the sun coming through the blinds. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like everything."
She understood.
She felt it too. The fullness. The terror. The joy. The exhaustion. All of it, at once, like a wave that wouldn't break.
"When we get home," she said, "I'm taking a shower. A long one."
"I'll watch her."
"You'll be fine."
"I know."
"You'll call me if anything—"
"I'll call you."
"Even if it's stupid."
Nothing's going to happen."
"But if it does."
He held up his pinky.
"Pinky promise," he said.
She hooked her finger around his.
"Pinky promise."
And they sat there. The three of them. The four of them, with the fries. And the clock ticked. And the city hummed. And the world kept spinning.
But for now—just for now—everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
The discharge papers came at 11:47.
A nurse Layla hadn't met before wheeled her to the entrance in a wheelchair that squeaked on every rotation. Tarek followed behind, carrying Amira in her car seat like she was made of explosives.
"You're doing good," Layla said over her shoulder.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're holding her."
"That's the problem."
The automatic doors slid open. November air hit Layla's face—cold, sharp, carrying the smell of wet leaves and car exhaust. She'd been inside for two days. It felt like two years.
Tarek had brought the car around. The same Honda Civic they'd driven to the hospital. The same cracked dashboard. The same pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, faded and sad.
"You buckled her in?" Layla asked.
"Twice."
"Let me check."
She leaned over. Tugged at the straps. Tightened one side. Loosened the other.
"Okay," she said. "Good."
"That's good?"
"That's good."
She climbed into the passenger seat. Her body protested—every muscle sore, every joint stiff, the stitches pulling with every movement. She buckled her seatbelt and let her head fall back against the headrest.
"Home," she said.
"Home," Tarek echoed.
He pulled out of the parking lot. Turned onto Layton Avenue. The city rolled past—strip malls, gas stations, a church with a sign that said GIVE THANKS. Layla watched it all through half-closed eyes.
"You okay?" Tarek asked.
"Tired."
"We're almost there."
"How far?"
"Ten minutes."
"That's forever."
"That's what you said last time."
"Last time I was in labor."
"And now?"
"Now I'm just tired."
He reached over. Squeezed her knee.
"We're almost there," he said again.
The apartment was on the third floor. No elevator. Tarek carried Amira in one arm and the diaper bag in the other. Layla climbed the stairs one at a time, gripping the railing, stopping halfway to breathe.
"You need help?" he called from above.
"I need a new body."
"I can't help with that."
"Then no."
She made it to the top. Unlocked the door. Stepped inside.
The apartment smelled like nothing. Stale air. Dust. The faint ghost of the dinner they'd made three nights ago—garlic and onion and something burnt. The living room was exactly as she'd left it. Couch. TV. Blanket crumpled on the floor. A half-empty water bottle on the coffee table.
"Wow," she said.
"What?"
"It's weird."
"What is?"
"Coming home with her." She looked at Amira, still sleeping in her car seat. "It's like the apartment doesn't know she exists yet."
"It will."
"How?"
"She'll scream until it does."
Layla laughed. It hurt.
"Set her down," she said. "I need to shower."
"You sure?"
"I smell like a hospital. I smell like—" She stopped. Sniffed her own shirt. "I smell like everything."
"Take your time."
"I will."
She walked to the bathroom. Closed the door. Looked at herself in the mirror.
She looked terrible.
Her hair was a rat's nest. Her skin was pale, waxy, streaked with dried sweat. Dark circles carved hollows under her eyes. Her lips were cracked. Her hospital gown—she was still wearing the hospital gown—had a stain on the front that she didn't want to identify.
She stared at herself for a long time.
Then she turned on the water.
The shower was mercy.
Hot water. Steam. The smell of her own shampoo. She stood under the spray and let it wash everything away—the sweat, the blood, the antiseptic, the fear. She scrubbed her scalp until it tingled. Washed her body three times. Watched the water run clear.
When she stepped out, she felt human again.
She dried off. Wrapped her hair in a towel. Looked at the mirror.
Still tired. Still pale. Still wrecked.
But better.
She found her makeup bag in the cabinet under the sink. Unzipped it. Stared at the contents like they were foreign objects.
Foundation. Concealer. Mascara. Lip gloss. A tiny brush she never used. Blush she'd bought on a whim two years ago and worn maybe twice.
She hadn't worn makeup in months.
Not since Syria. Not since the wedding. Not since everything changed.
But her mother had raised her right. Had taught her that looking put-together was a form of respect—for yourself, for your family, for the people who saw you. And she was about to see her mother.
She picked up the foundation.
It took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of blending and patting and wiping away mistakes. Twenty minutes of leaning close to the mirror, squinting, trying to remember how her face worked. She did her eyes with a soft brown shadow. Her cheeks with a whisper of blush. Her lips with gloss that tasted like vanilla.
When she was done, she stepped back.
She looked alive.
The circles were gone. The pallor was covered. Her eyes looked brighter, larger, less haunted. She looked like someone who had slept. Someone who had eaten. Someone who hadn't just pushed a human out of her body.
She looked like herself.
She pulled on clean clothes—loose sweatpants, a nursing tank, one of Tarek's hoodies that was two sizes too big. Her hair she left down, damp and curling at the ends.
Then she looked at her stomach.
She'd been avoiding it. The mirror. The full-length one on the back of the bathroom door. But now she couldn't avoid it anymore.
She lifted her shirt.
Her stomach was flat.
Not completely. Not perfect. There was a softness there, a looseness, the skin still stretched and tired. But it was flat. The bump that had defined her for nine months was gone. The shelf she'd braced herself for—the one all the videos warned about, the one that made women cry—wasn't there.
She touched her belly. Pressed her palm against it.
"Wow," she whispered.
She didn't know why it mattered. She knew it shouldn't. Her body had just done something miraculous. It deserved grace. It deserved time.
But she felt good.
She felt like herself.
When she walked back into the living room, Tarek was sitting on the couch with Amira in his arms. He looked up. His jaw dropped.
"What?" she said.
"You—" He blinked. "You look—"
"I look what?"
"You look beautiful."
She felt her face warm.
"I put on makeup."
"I can see that."
"Is it too much?"
"No." He shook his head. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
She sat down next to him. Leaned her head on his shoulder. Amira was awake now, her blue eyes wandering, her tiny mouth making shapes.
"Say hi to your dad," Layla murmured.
Amira didn't say anything.
"She's judging me," Tarek said.
"She's a baby."
"Babies judge."
"Babies eat and sleep and poop."
"And judge."
Layla laughed.
"Okay," she said. "Maybe a little."
They sat there. The apartment was still. The light came through the window, gray and soft. The radiator clicked and hummed. It was warm. It was quiet. It was theirs.
"I should call my mother," Layla said.
"You should."
"She's going to be mad."
"She's going to be thrilled."
"Both."
"Probably."
Layla picked up her phone. Scrolled to her mother's contact. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
"What?" Tarek asked.
"I'm nervous."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"You just had a baby. She's going to be happy."
"I know."
"Then what?"
"I don't know." She looked at the phone. "I don't know how to tell her."
"Tell her what?"
"That I'm a mother now."
"She knows."
"She doesn't."
"She does."
"But she hasn't seen her. She hasn't—" Layla stopped. "She hasn't seen me. As a mom."
Tarek kissed her temple.
"Just call."
She called.
Her mother picked up on the second ring.
"Layla?"
"Hi, Mama."
"Hi? Hi?" Her mother's voice rose. "Where have you been? I called three times. Three times, Layla. I left messages. I—"
"Mama."
"What? What is it? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's okay."
"Then why—"
"The baby's here."
Silence.
"You had the baby?" Her mother's voice cracked. "You had the baby and you didn't call me?"
"It happened fast."
"How fast?"
"Really fast."
"Layla—"
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? I'm your mother. I should have been there. I should have—"
"Mama. Please."
Silence.
"Please what?"
"Please just be happy. Please just—" Layla's voice broke. "Please tell me you're happy."
Her mother was quiet for a long time.
Then, softly, "Is she beautiful?"
"Yes."
"Is she healthy?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm tired. But I'm okay."
"Good." Her mother exhaled. "Good. That's—that's all I wanted."
"Her name is Amira."
"Amira." Her mother said it like a prayer. "Amira."
"Amira Rose."
"Rose. After your grandmother."
"And yours."
"Layla." Her mother was crying now. Layla could hear it—the wet, broken sound of tears on the other end of the line. "Layla, I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you."
"Can I come? Can I see her?"
"Please."
"When?"
"Now. Whenever. Please."
"Okay. Okay." Her mother sniffled. "I'll call your father. We'll be there in an hour."
"An hour?"
"Maybe less."
"Mama—"
"An hour, Layla."
The line went dead.
Layla stared at her phone.
"She's coming," she said.
"I heard."
"In an hour."
"Then we should clean up."
Layla looked around the apartment. The blanket on the floor. The dishes in the sink. The pile of mail on the counter. The baby stuff everywhere—diapers, wipes, bottles, the car seat, the hospital bag.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. You take her. I'll—"
"I'll do it," Tarek said.
"Do what?"
"Everything." He stood up, Amira in his arms. "You sit. You feed her. You rest. I'll clean."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
"But—"
"Layla." He looked at her. Serious. Steady. "You just had a baby. You just spent two days in a hospital. You just—" He shook his head. "Sit down. Let me do this."
She sat down.
He cleaned.
He was terrible at it. He piled things in corners. He wiped the counter with a dish towel. He put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher without rinsing them first. He vacuumed around the baby stuff instead of moving it.
But he cleaned.
Layla watched him from the couch. Amira was on her chest, sleeping. The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and baby powder and something warm.
"You missed a spot," she said.
"Where?"
"Behind the TV."
"I'll get it."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't."
"Layla."
"What?"
"Let me live."
She laughed. Amira stirred. The doorbell rang.
"They're here," Layla said.
"That was fast."
"Not fast enough."
She stood up. Handed Amira to Tarek. Walked to the door.
She took a breath.
She opened it.
Her mother stood in the hallway. Gray hair pulled back. Hijab perfectly draped. Eyes already wet. Behind her, her father—tall, silver-bearded, holding a bouquet of flowers and a bag from the bakery down the street.
"Mama," Layla said.
Her mother didn't speak. Just opened her arms.
Layla fell into them.
They held each other for a long time. Long enough that Layla lost track. Long enough that her father had to clear his throat. Long enough that Tarek appeared behind her, baby in arms.
Her mother pulled back. Looked at Layla's face. Touched her cheek.
"You look beautiful," she said.
"I put on makeup."
"I can tell."
"Is it too much?"
"It's perfect."
Layla laughed. Nearly cried.
"Mama—"
"Show me."
Layla stepped aside. Her mother walked in. Stopped in the middle of the living room.
Tarek held out Amira.
Her mother took her.
She held the baby like she'd been waiting her whole life. Like this moment had been carved into her bones before Layla was even born. She looked down at Amira's face—the dark hair, the tiny nose, the closed eyes—and made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"Habibti," she whispered. "Habibti."
Her father stepped forward. Placed the flowers on the counter. Set the bakery bag down. Looked at Amira.
"She's perfect," he said.
"She looks like Layla," her mother said. "When she was born."
"She looks like Tarek," Layla said.
"Both." Her mother smiled. "She looks like both."
Tarek stepped closer. Put his arm around Layla.
"Thank you," he said to her parents. "For coming."
Her father nodded. Her mother didn't look up. She was too busy staring at her granddaughter.
"Sit," Layla said. "Please. I'll make tea."
"You'll sit," her mother said. "I'll make tea."
"But—"
"Sit."
Layla sat.
Her mother handed Amira to her father. He held her like she was made of glass. Her mother went to the kitchen. Started opening cabinets. Started filling the kettle.
"You have no sugar," she called.
"We have sugar."
"Not the right kind."
"We have the kind—"
"Layla."
"What?"
"I'll buy you sugar."
"Mama."
"Don't argue."
Tarek sat on the couch. Layla leaned against him. Her father sat in the armchair. Amira was passed from person to person like a precious artifact. Everyone wanted to hold her. Everyone wanted to look at her. Everyone wanted to make sure she was real.
"She's real," Layla said.
"I know," her mother called from the kitchen. "I just want to be sure."
The kettle whistled. Cups were found. Tea was poured. Sugar was added.
Her parents stayed for three hours.
They held Amira. They asked about the birth. They winced at the story—the speed, the no-epidural, the stitches. Her mother told the story of Layla's own birth, which had taken twenty-six hours and was apparently a miracle because Layla's father had been stuck in traffic in Damascus and hadn't made it until she was three hours old.
"You were so small," her mother said. "So quiet. I thought something was wrong."
"Was something wrong?"
"No. You were just easy."
"She's not easy now," Tarek said.
"None of us are," her mother replied.
Her father asked about finances. Tarek answered—honest, steady, the way he always did. Her father nodded. Asked about Arizona. Asked about the plan. Tarek said he'd taken three weeks off. That he'd come back in two weeks for another visit. That they were figuring it out.
Her father didn't push.
Her mother did.
"How are you going to do this?" she asked Layla. In the kitchen. While they were alone.
"Do what?"
"Raise a baby. By yourself. While he's in Arizona."
"I'm not by myself."
"You're alone at night."
"Amira's with me."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know."
"So?"
"So I don't know. We're figuring it out."
Her mother looked at her. Deep. Long.
"You're happy," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Even though he's leaving."
"Yes."
"Even though you're alone."
"I'm not alone."
"You're not."
"I have Amira."
Her mother nodded.
"You have Amira."
She looked out the window. At the gray Wisconsin sky. At the bare branches. At the street below.
"You're stronger than me," she said.
Layla blinked.
"What?"
"I was a mess when you were born. Postpartum. Depressed. I couldn't leave the house for weeks. Your father had to do everything. And I had my mother. My sisters. My friends. I had everyone."
"And?"
"And you—" She turned back. "You're alone. And you're smiling. And your hair looks good. And your makeup is perfect. And your stomach—"
"Mama."
"I was just trying to say—"
"Mama."
"You look amazing."
Layla laughed.
"I don't feel amazing."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to be it."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to."
The door opened. Tarek walked in. Amira was in his arms, crying softly.
"She's hungry," he said.
Layla took her.
"I'll feed her in the other room."
"I'll come get you when your parents leave."
"When they leave?"
"They're leaving soon."
"They just got here."
"They've been here three hours."
Layla looked at the clock.
"Three hours?"
"Time flies."
She went to the bedroom. Closed the door. Sat on the bed. Pulled up her shirt. Amira latched on with the desperate urgency of a baby who had been waiting her whole life.
"Okay," Layla whispered. "Okay. I'm here."
Amira nursed. Layla watched her. The tiny jaw. The tiny hand. The tiny everything.
She heard voices in the other room. Her mother. Her father. Tarek. Soft words. Laughter.
She felt something settle in her chest. Something heavy. Something light.
Something like peace.
When the door opened again, her mother stood in the doorway.
"We're going," she said.
"So soon?"
"We'll be back tomorrow."
"You will?"
"We will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Her mother crossed the room. Kissed Layla's forehead. Kissed Amira's.
"Ya habibti," she said. "Ya albi."
"Mama."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming."
Her mother smiled.
"I'll always come."
She left.
The door closed. The apartment went quiet. Tarek appeared in the doorway.
"You okay?"
"I'm okay."
"You look okay."
"I am."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He sat on the bed beside her. Amira was finished now, milk-drunk and content. He took her. Held her. Rocked her.
"They like you," Layla said.
"They like her."
"They like you too."
"How do you know?"
"Your dad shook your hand."
"Your mom hugged me."
"That's a big deal."
"I know."
"The last time she hugged you was at the wedding."
"I know."
"She likes you."
"I know."
Layla leaned her head on his shoulder.
"We're going to be okay," she said.
"We are."
"You're leaving in three weeks."
"Three weeks is a long time."
"I don't want you to go."
"I know."
"Don't go."
"I have to."
"I know."
He kissed her.
"I'll come back," he said.
"You better."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She believed him.
The night came. The city went dark. The apartment settled into its own quiet rhythm. Amira woke twice—hungry, wet, hungry again. Layla fed her. Changed her. Rocked her. Tarek slept in the chair beside the bed, his hand on her foot, anchoring her, keeping her there.
And when the sun came up, Layla looked in the mirror.
She looked beautiful.
Her makeup was a little smeared from sleep. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were tired.
But she looked beautiful.
She put on new makeup. Fresh. Clean. She fixed her hair. She held Amira against her chest and looked at herself in the mirror.
"I'm a mother," she said.
Amira made a sound.
"I'm your mother."
She touched her belly. Flat. Soft.
"And I'm okay."
She walked out of the bathroom.
Tarek was awake. Holding Amira. Smiling at her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning."
"You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
"How do you do it? You've slept, what, four hours?"
"Three."
"You look like you slept twelve."
"Makeup."
"Not just the makeup."
She sat down next to him.
"I don't know," she said. "I'm happy. I'm tired. But I'm happy."
"That's enough."
"Maybe."
"It's enough."
She looked at him.
"You're leaving in three weeks."
"I know."
"I'm going to miss you."
"I'm going to miss you too."
"But I'll be okay."
"I know."
"Not because I want to be. Because I have to be."
"I know."
She held out her pinky.
"Promise you'll come back."
He hooked his finger around hers.
"Promise."
"Again. In two weeks. For good at some point."
"For good at some point."
"Soon."
"Soon."
"As soon as we can."
"As soon as we can."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She believed him.
And for now—just for now—that was enough.