3. Bella

3

BELLA

T he Present Day, eight years later

When Ginny was born, I complained a lot. Not all of it came from a bad place, but I was really struggling. I'd just moved into a small studio apartment in Spokane because of work demands. And I was a single mom. My parents were having a hard time reconciling with my situation, so we weren't talking—this fixed itself when I took her down to Whispering Pines six months ago.

Thankfully, Millie was around to help when she could, but other than her presence at the house once a week, I was on my own. And, like most new moms, I wanted to be the very best mama out there, like top-tier. No one could defeat me at this parenting game. This started with my wanting an induction when the due date arrived, but the baby wasn’t in a hurry to come out.

To cut to the chase, the birth process became traumatic, where I could practically feel my uterus being taken out of my body. Ginny had fluid in her lungs, but boy, was she a fighter. When they finally handed her to me, I thought she wouldn't latch because we'd missed the Golden Hour. I was wrong. My little girl was a champ. She still is, of course. My breasts begin hurting at the mere memory of her tiny, wrinkly face, her semi-bald head, how pink her toes and fingers used to be, and how she'd smile whenever she was a gassy little fart monster. She was absolutely perfect.

I wish I could say the same about my life. I had bad days. I had moments of wondering whether life was better before—it wasn't, although technically, it was easier with the sheer lack of responsibilities and my penchant for the wild life. Ginny, in a sense, grounded me and made me settle down to think with my head first. But she was a terrible sleeper—even at nine months, when we'd begun mastering solid foods, I was lucky if I could get a two-hour stretch at night. Sleep training was never an option, so we slogged through, until at eighteen months, she finally decided sleep wasn't all that bad.

All my demons came flooding in when I sat rocking her straight from ten p.m. to six a.m., with little breaks where I caught some shut-eye. And all those demons looked a lot like River asking me to politely fuck off.

He had changed the whole trajectory of my existence, but not in a sweet way like Ginny. Of course…what we did created her, and I was forever grateful for my baby. But him? Oh, if I ever saw Whispering Pines's golden boy again, I'd make sure he knew how much he had hurt me. I scowl heavily at the memory of our last meeting. Maybe I'm just in a foul mood. Or maybe he's just an asshole.

I shake my head and push out of the recliner in my two-bedroom apartment. I've come a long way since those early days of pure hustle. I walk to the window and peer out. The city is already awake. Time to get to it. The soft glow of the early morning sun filters through the curtains as I tiptoe into Ginny's room. Her little face is peaceful in sleep, her curls splayed across her pillow. I lean over and gently shake her shoulder. "Wake up, sweet pea. Time to start the day."

Ginny stirs, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. "Good morning, Mama," she mumbles, a smile spreading across her sleep-mussed face.

"Good morning, my love," I say, scooping her into a hug and planting a kiss on her forehead. "How about some blueberry pancakes?"

Her eyes light up instantly. "Yes, please!"

We head to the kitchen of our chic apartment. The large windows let in the golden light, and the sleek, modern design is softened by cozy touches—a knitted throw on the couch, family photos on the walls, and Ginny's latest crayon masterpiece stuck to the fridge. Nothing comes close to that, not even the expensive crystal bowl that's the centerpiece of our dining table.

I set Ginny up at the counter with her favorite stuffed bunny, Mr. Flopsy, and start mixing the pancake batter. "Do you remember the first time you had blueberry pancakes?" I ask, tossing a wink her way.

She giggles. "I made a mess!"

"That's right! Blueberries everywhere," I say, laughing. "And Mr. Flopsy got a blueberry bath."

As the pancakes sizzle on the stove, I heat up some milk. I glance over at Ginny, who's now singing a song to Mr. Flopsy. Her independence is growing every day, and while it makes me proud, it also tugs at my heart. I miss the days when she needed me for everything.

Her early months were full of three a.m. wakeups. The colicky cries echoed through the dimly lit nursery, bouncing off the bright honey and brick-red walls and burrowing into my exhausted brain. Milk-stained pajamas had clung to my body, my hair a bird's nest of unwashed strands. I had bounced Ginny gently, murmuring soothing nonsense, but the screams had only intensified.

Why won't she stop crying? I had thought desperately, tears welling up in my own eyes. Please, just let me sleep.

Meanwhile, my social media feed had been a parade of blissful motherhood. Perfectly posed photos of glowing mothers cuddling their cherubic babies, captions proclaiming the joys of sleepless nights and endless diaper changes. They made it look so easy, so effortless. My own experience felt like a chaotic battleground, a constant struggle against an invisible enemy.

The days blurred into a hazy montage of spit-up stains, overflowing diaper pails, and the ever-present fear of failing. The pressure to be the perfect mother, the one who cherished every moment and never lost her cool, was suffocating.

Fast forward a few years, and the scene was drastically different.

A small hand grips a plastic sword, its tip aimed menacingly at my shin. "En garde, Mommy!" Ginny declares, her eyes flashing with mischievous delight. I parry her attack with a spatula, feigning a dramatic defeat. She dissolves into giggles, her chubby cheeks flushed with triumph.

I think about yesterday, when I was summoned to a tea party, but my attire is deemed "not fancy enough" by the pint-sized hostess. I had endured a withering look and a dramatic eye roll before being granted entry, my hastily donned feather boa apparently meeting her exacting standards.

I wouldn't trade these moments for anything. The messy chaos of those early months may have been a trial by fire, but it forged a bond with my daughter that is unbreakable. And the truth is, even with the sleepless nights and endless worry, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Because seeing Ginny grow into the feisty, independent little girl she is today makes every challenge, every tear, and every dirty diaper worth it.

"Pancakes are ready!" I announce, setting a plate in front of her with a flourish. Ginny digs in with gusto, blueberry syrup smearing her mouth. I join her, savoring the warm, fluffy pancakes, each bite a comfort.

After breakfast, it's time to get Ginny ready for school. She insists on dressing herself, picking out a mismatched outfit of a striped shirt and polka-dot leggings. "I can do it, Mama," she says firmly, her little face set with determination.

"Of course, sweetheart," I say, smiling at her fierce independence.

We walk hand-in-hand to the school, the city bustling around us. The energy of Spokane is a constant hum, but in this moment, it's just me and Ginny. At the school gate, she gives me a quick hug and a kiss. "Bye, Mama! Love you!"

"Love you too, Ginny. Have a great day!" I call after her, watching as she joins her friends.

Back home, the apartment feels quieter, emptier. I make my way to Ginny's nursery. Being in here somehow both hurts and heals me. The impact of time is so strong that it feels physical. Mother used to say time is a thief. I never understood until I became a mom myself.

I sigh and look around at the brightly colored walls. One of them has a whole fairytale depicted on it—something I worked on for days on end. I had people telling me this was a waste, that she'd outgrow this sooner than she learned to say "Mama". But hey, she still loves staring at the wall, and as long as she's a child, I'll let her have her childhood. We're going to a face-painting festival in a few months, too. I live for these things now that she's older.

I wander over to a little trunk and open it to pull out one of her old baby outfits, the soft fabric still carrying a hint of lavender scent. I press it to my face, breathing in deeply. I miss my baby, the tiny version of Ginny who needed me so completely. Now, she's asserting her independence with a ferocious intent, and while I know she still needs me, it's different now.

The doorbell rings, jolting me from my reverie. I open it to find Millie standing there, a big smile on her face and a bag in her hand. "Hey, Bella! Thought you might need some comfort food."

"Millie! You read my mind," I say, stepping aside to let her in.

We head to the kitchen, and she starts unpacking the bag. The aroma of melty cheese sandwiches and luxurious tomato soup fills the room, instantly lifting my spirits. "I made your favorite," Millie says, handing me a thermos of soup. "And a little extra cheese on the sandwiches, just the way you like them."

"You're the best," I say, taking a deep breath of the delicious smells. "Ginny's growing up so fast. I was just looking at her old baby clothes and feeling a bit nostalgic."

Millie gives me a sympathetic smile. "I know it's tough, but she's turning into an amazing little person. And she's got an amazing mom to thank for that."

We settle on the couch with our food, and I take a bite of my food. The cheese stretches, gooey and perfect, and I let out a happy sigh. "This is exactly what I needed."

Millie grins. "Remember that time we tried to make these in college and nearly set the kitchen on fire?"

I laugh, nearly choking on my soup. Millie had come up with this brilliant idea to toast bread using an iron—needless to say, it did not go well. "How could I forget? The smoke alarm went off, and we ended up ordering pizza instead."

We share stories and laughter, the cozy apartment filling with the comfort of Millie's presence. Post motherhood, I've found the world has become divided in two—what came before Ginny, and the time that is lit up by her existence. I've had a hard time empathizing with most people who live life child-free. Their egos are different, though not in a bad way. We're all like that before having children causes an entire shift in our perspective. Millie, though… he's one of the rare few friends who stuck around although I wasn't able to make plans, couldn't find the strength to get out of pajamas for days on end. I had sometimes called her at desperate hours, my clothes stained with breastmilk and infant spit-up, and begged her to watch my baby so I could take a shower. Fun times.

Millie leans back, a contented smile on her face. "Bella, you're doing a great job. Ginny's happy, healthy, and full of life. That's all you."

My eyes mist a little, and I nod gratefully. "Thanks, Millie. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Funny you should say that," she replies, standing up to wash her hands. When she returns, there's a conspiratorial smile on her lips that I'm not sure will work out well for me. "What?" I ask, eyeing her suspiciously. "What have you done?"

She raises her hands and flourishes them like a dramatic actress. "Must we always jump to conclusions?"

I frown decidedly. "Well, seeing that you're someone who thinks they can get the perfect melt cheese sandwiches with an iron and likes taking baths in cold water when it's snowing outside, I'll say yes. You're planning something."

Her eyes begin gleaming in an almost feline fashion. "You told me Ginny is going to your parents' next week, didn't you?"

Sigh. Ah, yes, the never-ending saga of the "Ginny Appreciation Society”, also known as my loving, but slightly overzealous parents. Don't get me wrong, I adore the fact that they're head over heels for their granddaughter (after Dad finally thawed out from his initial, my baby had a baby shock). But let's be honest, they're starting to make me feel like a neglected houseplant in the corner of their lives.

Mom has this adorable theory that Ginny is her karmic reward for raising a "hooligan" like me. Bless her heart, she means well, but sometimes I wonder if she secretly replaced my baby formula with Red Bull. Case in point—Ginny's been summoned for a week-long stay at Camp Grandma and Grandpa, while I, the actual mother, have received no such invitation. When I dared to point out this blatant injustice, Mom simply smiled and said, "Honey, you need some child-free time. Ginny needs to socialize with her elders. It's a win-win!"

I attempted a feeble protest, but Mom swiftly shut me down with a classic "stop and think" maneuver. And wouldn't you know it, she was right as usual, the infuriating woman. In the whirlwind of diapers, playdates, and pureed peas, I had completely neglected my own life. Work had become a distant memory, my social calendar was as empty as my pre-Ginny wine glass, and I'd started wearing pajamas as a fashion statement.

So, here I was, facing the imminent departure of my tiny dictator with a mix of dread and disbelief. Apparently, I was supposed to use this time to "get my life together”, whatever that meant. But honestly, the thought of a week without Ginny's sticky kisses and chaotic charm is enough to send me into a full-blown panic. Who am I without my partner in crime? A sleep-deprived, pajama-clad shell of my former self, that's who.

"Good God," I say, my voice thick with dismay. "I've become just the mom I didn't want to be. I have no life outside of parenthood!"

"And there's nothing wrong with that," Mille points out reasonably. "It's supposed to be this way when they are this little, but it needn't be so…confining, you know?"

I nod bleakly. I do know.

"So," Millie chirps, her voice suspiciously chipper, "I had this brilliant idea. Why not book a cozy cabin near your parents’ place for the holidays? You can find yourself, rediscover your inner goddess, and maybe even remember what it feels like to pee without an audience."

"Nope," I declare, leaping up and brushing crumbs off my leggings. "Absolutely not."

"Well…" Millie twiddles her thumbs nervously, "I may have already booked it for you."

"You WHAT?"

"Okay, look," she pleads, "it's the holiday season, Bells. And I know you want to be around family. I'm going away with Luke. If you don't go home, you'll be sitting here alone for the entire time. And pretty as your place is, you deserve something better right now."

"No," I say, shaking my head stubbornly. "I'm not going back to Whispering Pines."

"The cabin I've found on AirBnB is cute. It's not all that far from your folks’ place, and it’s owned by Marcus. You remember him, right?"

One more of Dad's best friends. God knows I'd had enough of those, too. "Millie, I…"

"It faces the Riverview Woods, and there's the promise of snow. Think of the novel you're writing, the setting, the knowledge that if you miss Ginny too much, you can just drive down to your folks' place. Isn't that…better than this?" she wordlessly gestures around her at my beautiful, empty home.

And she's right, though I hate to admit it.

I drop back down on the couch and fling my head back. I realize I don't have the energy to oppose my best friend, and even if I did, she'd wear me down eventually. "Friends don't usually book holidays for their friends, you know?" I mutter with my palm covering my eyes.

"Well, there's friends, and then there's me. I'm more of your caretaker at this point," she deadpans.

Damn her, she has to be right all the time.

I push to my feet and give her the most serious look I can muster. "What if he is there?"

She shrugs sagely and offers me an enigmatic little smile. "IF he is, it's high time you got your closure. If he isn't, it won't matter."

A little part of me, the part that's not buried under a mountain of laundry and goldfish crackers, whispers, "But what if he still has that ridiculously charming smile? What if he still smells like cedarwood and campfire smoke? What if…?"

Okay, fine. Maybe I'm a teeny bit curious. It's for the sake of my emotional well-being , I tell myself. It's purely a scientific experiment to confirm that my heart is no longer going to turn into a palpitating mess at the mere sound of his name.

"Fine," I huff, flopping my arms down beside me. "I'll go."

"Thank you."