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F lora's nipples are infected.

She didn't even know nipples could get infected, though she probably should have guessed it given the crusting skin and yellow discharge and sharp intake of breath that accompanies even the softest caress of her loose cotton T-shirt against her bare breasts. But everyone claims this is normal. They say to push through because the first couple of weeks are brutal but then it all "clicks." So that's what she's waiting for. The click.

This morning, after finally admitting that breastfeeding has only gotten harder in the first three weeks of Iris's life, Flora called the hospital and scheduled a meeting with the lactation consultant. They squeezed her in for noon, which gave her two and a half hours to map out the process of leaving the house. She needed the diaper bag: diapers, wipes, cream, pacifier, pacifier clip, burp cloth, extra outfit (in case of spit-up or blowout—terms for baby accidents tend to indicate a direction of projectile, she is learning), the stroller, the travel sound machine, a muslin blanket, the carrier. She made a checklist on her phone. This was the first time she was leaving the house with Iris alone. Apparently, it was going to take more planning than a goddamn PhD dissertation.

Now, sitting in the lactation lounge, ten minutes into the appointment, Flora is exhausted. And that's when Genevieve, the sixty-something breastfeeding guru, looks at Flora's raw, scaly nipples and says, "Those are infected."

At first, Flora is horrified, but that feeling is quickly surpassed by relief—

does this mean I can stop breastfeeding

—and then that is triumphed by immeasurable guilt.

As if reading her mind, Genevieve coos, "But not to worry. It's perfectly safe to continue nursing. I'll put in a prescription for some all-purpose nipple ointment." She smiles, one front tooth shorter than the other, and latches the baby onto Flora's left breast. Flora braces herself for the pain, but it doesn't come. Not even a tugging. Genevieve is a wizard.

Flora's insides hollow out with the realization that she's even more of a failure than she thought. She assumed Genevieve would assess the situation, shake her head in sympathy, and admit, Looks like it'll be formula for the two of you. Iris just won't take to the breast. But instead, when someone else does it, the baby latches with ease, and Flora barely feels the tiny human sucking life-force from her chest.

When Genevieve weighs Iris after the first feed, she beams with satisfaction. "She took almost two ounces on that side! She's a great eater."

Iris has betrayed her—even if she is only a three-week-old baby, she has committed treason. Before, this was something they were having trouble figuring out together. Now it's very clearly a Flora problem. Iris's instincts have kicked in just fine. It's only Flora's that are still missing in action.

Genevieve explains that no amount of pain is normal, despite what people say. Flora thinks about all the mothers who insist it gets better after the initial weeks, after the nipples "toughen up." She wonders what other helpful motherhood tidbits are actually just lies.

"Anyone else at home? A partner?" Genevieve asks.

Flora shakes her head. "My husband is deployed. He'll be back in a couple of weeks."

"That must be tough."

Flora adopts a dismissive tone. "Oh, it's not so bad. I'm used to it," she says, which is half-true, since this is her husband, Connor's, third deployment. But she has to admit it's different this time. Before, she would miss Connor, of course, but it was more like a craving. Like being deprived of chocolate. But as a single parent, not having Connor is like being deprived of a limb. She's desperate for him to get home.

Genevieve cradles Iris and holds up her little fists. "See how her fingers are balled up? That means she's still hungry. Would you like to try latching her on the other side?"

It's a fair question, but Flora doesn't want to try. She wants to fold Genevieve up into the diaper bag and take her home.

"Sure," Flora says, awkwardly pulling Iris toward her chest.

Flora does exactly as Genevieve has instructed. Exactly as the dozens of YouTube videos have directed. Exactly as she learned in the online breastfeeding class she took before Iris was born.

And still, her toes curl in her worn tennis shoes the second Iris clamps on with her X-Acto knife lips.

"That looks great," Genevieve says. "Does that feel better?"

"Much better," Flora lies, because she refuses to confess that she is a total, utter failure at something that should come so naturally. And if this is a challenge, what else does motherhood have in store for her?

As Iris sleeps in the living room, Flora tries to decipher the smudged Sharpie written on the foil-wrapped chicken potpie she found in the freezer. Her stepmother, Esther, prepared some meals before she and Flora's father left last week. It has only been five days, but Flora has already worked her way through them all. This potpie is the last remaining semi-nutritious food item in the house.

She was thirty-eight weeks pregnant when she went to Labor and Delivery with a bad headache. Three hours later, they were prepping her for induction. Her blood pressure was elevated, and they didn't want to take any risks.

Her dad, Michael, and Esther arrived the next morning with gifts in tow for the nurses. That was classic Esther; they were beautiful woven baskets full of snacks and lip balms and comfy socks, with thick, delicate ribbon tied artfully around the handles. Esther is a Quintessential Mom. She's that woman in Hamburger Helper commercials who makes people think, Nobody is that domestic. But Esther is.

"You are just the bravest person I know, Flora," she said as the anesthesiologist poked Flora's back for the fourth time in an attempt to place the epidural. "If my husband hadn't been there when I gave birth—well, he might not have been around much after that, either! I might've had to kick him out!" She laughed, crinkles smiling at the corners of her eyes.

Flora knew her stepmother was trying to be playful, but Flora was twenty-nine hours into labor and hadn't slept in two days. The joke triggered a fierce protectiveness in her to defend her hardworking husband. Plus, someone was threading a small tube under her skin and up her spine and she thought she might puke.

"It's not like Connor has a choice," she said, wincing as the anesthesiologist pressed. Then, to the doctor: "I feel that on the right. On the right. Ouch!"

He pulled the tube out again. "Maybe we hold off on the conversation for now," he said, primarily to Esther.

"Oh, yes, sorry," she said, her thin fingers finding the ends of her long white hair and caressing them compulsively. Then, quickly, under her breath: "Of course Connor doesn't have a choice, sweetie. That's not what I meant. I know he'd be here if he weren't deployed." Flora responded with a half-hearted smile and felt guilty for sucking Esther into her sleep-deprived, crabby vortex.

Her father and Esther stayed at the house for two weeks after Iris's birth, cleaning dishes, prepping meals, and doing laundry. The real shock came after they left, when Flora was on her own. How could they possibly leave her with this perfect human specimen whose literal survival depended on her and her alone?

"We're just a phone call away," her dad said as they pulled out of the driveway on their last day.

yeah and a three-hour drive

Flora is now five days into her solo-parenting journey. The house feels hollow, like a termite-infested log. She has the sensation that if she screamed loud enough, the walls would collapse. Of course it is quieter without her father and Esther here. But it's something more than that. Flora spent nearly her entire pregnancy in this house alone, and it didn't feel as empty then as it does now.

When she was pregnant, the house was fattened up with hopes and plans and chores and preparations. Now that Iris has arrived and the anticipation has deflated, so, too, has the air that Flora breathes. Everything she waited for is here. And since she is no longer preoccupied with the promise of the future, she is highly attuned to the now, which feels somehow two-dimensional in comparison to the three-dimensional world she had imagined.

Flora preheats the oven for the chicken potpie and thinks about Connor. Between the two of them, he is the one with any semblance of talent in the kitchen. Yet another example of how things would be easier if he were here.

Something scuttles behind a half-filled bag of rice Flora has left on the counter. She moves the bag, and a fat black bug shimmies himself along the grout line to safety. This is the third beetle she has seen in as many days, but she punts any fears of an infestation to the back of her mind. Under normal circumstances, she'd have called the exterminator at the first sighting, but she does not have the mental capacity to deal with that right now.

Instead, she wraps a paper towel around her index finger and stalks the beetle as he pauses just beside the oven. If he disappears down the crack between the appliance and the counter, she'll lose him. She swoops in and almost misses—he reacts quickly—but she's faster. She presses her finger into his crunchy body, popping him like bubble wrapping. The sensation is satisfying.

She wipes away his splattered remains just as the oven beeps.