2

2

F lora sits in the home office for her regularly scheduled video visit with Connor. In another era, she would have gotten done up for the chat with her husband, or at least brushed her hair and rubbed on tinted lip balm. But today, she's rocking loose cheetah-print sweats with an oversized red cotton top. Spit-up and milk have stained both items of clothing—along with everything else she owns. In many cases, she doesn't know where the spit-up ends and the milk begins.

"I wish your dad could have stayed longer," Connor says, waving to a fellow soldier just offscreen. He is planted in front of a computer in the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Tent. Flora doesn't know where in the world he is, and while that would normally bother her, she is so unmoored in her own body these days that it is oddly relatable. She's not the only buoy bobbing in the endless ocean.

"Well, he was here for two weeks…" she says.

"My mom feels so bad she can't be there," he continues, "but since Dad's knee surgery got bumped up, and she had to push the trip, she—"

"It's fine, really, she shouldn't feel bad. I'll send her a text."

The video feed skips, and she's not sure Connor has heard her. But then his voice comes through sharper than before. "Do you want to hire someone?"

" He asked as if we had the money, " Flora quips—then feels guilty for being dismissive. "It's fine, really. You're home in a couple of weeks. It would take me longer than that to find someone. Plus, I wouldn't even know where to start."

Connor nods and smiles, stretching the scar that runs from his upper lip to his nose. He was born with it: a result of something that happened in the womb. His dark brows are thick and harsh, a stark contrast to the still-boyish cheeks that redden the second he has a sip of alcohol.

He runs his hand through his hair, dipping his head forward and scratching at the crown. A uniquely Connor move. He did it the day they met at a hole-in-the-wall bar where they were gathered for their alma mater's basketball game. He did it the day they bought this house in Bennington, Vermont, knowing it was a stretch for their budget. And he did it the day she found out she was pregnant.

"Guess what, chicken butt?" she'd said as she flashed the tiny stick with two blue lines. She was using the tests that had come with the ovulation sticks, so they were much smaller than what she had seen in movies. This one was barely longer than a toothpick. And yet, it somehow seemed unwieldy, this tiny thing that held so much significance.

"So this is happening," he'd said, eyes wide. And she'd repeated the words as she climbed into bed next to him, where he had just woken up and was scrolling on his phone. She nuzzled her head in between his shoulder and neck: a spot that had been carved out especially for her, like stone weathered by rain and wind until smooth.

Their master bedroom had been largely unfurnished then; the purchase of the house had overshadowed their ability to buy things to fill it. This meant that the house often emitted an eerie feeling, like the space didn't yet know itself. But on this day, that unknowing presented hope. A new beginning. The space had not yet been defined because the life that was going to define it had only just sprung into existence.

"Flora?" Connor's voice from the computer pulls her back to the now. She sees him squint at the screen. "Can you hear me?" Flora fidgets in the old office chair, whose wheels catch as she tries to move it.

"Sorry, got a little lost there," she says to her husband. "I'm tired."

"Is Iris sleeping at all?"

Flora shrugs and sticks out her bottom lip. "I mean… yes? But I'm realizing even the best-sleeping newborn is still exhausting. I'm up every two or three hours at night. Oh, and the biggest news: my nipples are infected."

"Jesus."

"I picked up some cream. But that's probably the last time I'm leaving the house until you get home. I went to the hospital to meet with the lactation lady, and I forgot a diaper for Iris. I brought a diaper bag and no diapers. "

Connor shrugs slightly. "Yeah, but it's the hospital. They had diapers, right?"

He doesn't get it. He didn't feel the intense shame that Flora felt. Like she was outing herself on the spot: I'm so ill prepared for motherhood, I can't even remember a diaper! The very first thing on her apparently useless iPhone checklist.

Connor holds up his finger for Flora to wait a second. Someone offscreen has requested his attention. Flora stares at the space behind her husband, which offers few clues about his day-to-day life. The large white tent billows in and out to his right. It must be windy outside. Behind him, a natural wooden bookcase is stuffed with colorful worn paperbacks, and next to that is a cheap metal shelf holding a stack of board games. She wonders if he has played any of them. If any of their pieces are missing.

"Sorry about that," Connor says, returning to her. "There's a line, so I should probably let one of the other guys on here." He pauses and gives her a sincere look. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She could break down right now, she really could. She's on that edge of exhaustion, where tears come easily and it's hard to not see everything through a dark lens. But telling this to her husband, who is tens of thousands of miles away with no option to return home early, would only stress him out. And he has a job that requires him to be focused. So instead, she says, "I'm good. I promise."

"I wish I was there to help you," he replies, and she knows he means it; his fierce green eyes have a way of shining when he is earnest. "I feel useless over here."

"Well, you are"—she smiles—"but you'll make up for it when you're home."

He leans into the camera, largely blocking the shelves behind from view, and raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I will? Sounds like a plan."

Flora can't help but laugh. A deep belly laugh. "Just to be clear, you think I'm asking you to have sex with me? That's how you think I want to be repaid for a month of no sleep?"

"Oh, is that—I misread—is that just totally off the table?"

Flora tilts her head to the side. "I'm still in diapers, man. Literal diapers. "

"Well, hey," he jokes, "next time lend Iris one when she needs it, will ya?"

This sends them both howling, and her heart feels full.

"Hold on a minute," Flora says when she has caught her breath, "you're not laughing at me wearing diapers, right? I know you don't find that funny."

Connor holds up his hands in innocence, but his eyes bulge wide. "Of course not." Then a sneaky smile sprouts on his face, and Flora explodes playfully.

"You dick! I spent thirty-six hours in labor with your child—"

"I said nothing!"

"—and am still bleeding three weeks later!"

She flicks him off as he succumbs to another fit of laughter. Flora smiles. She hasn't felt this light since Iris was born. And then, as if merely thinking about her daughter could wake her from sleep, Flora hears Iris cry in the other room. "I'm being summoned," she says, then points to her breasts, where two small blooms of milk are forming on her shirt. "Isn't that fun?"

"You're leaking? Damn. That baby's got a hold on you."

"She does," Flora says. "She really does."