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Carol wakes before her alarm.
The room is still dark, a single strip of pale early morning light slipping through the gap in the curtains in a soft streak across the end of the bed. Beside her, Zosia sleeps on her stomach, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, long dark hair spilling messily across it.
Carol simply watches her for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips.
Three months in this room, of waking up next to this beautiful woman, and it still catches her off guard sometimes.
What is now the master bedroom was once a guest room. Neutral walls and empty closets. Just another unused room in a vast, empty shell of a house. A house Carol once rattled around alone in.
Now there are parenting books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand. One of Zosia’s oversized sweaters draped over the nursing chair in the corner. Framed photos of the three of them—their little family—sit crooked on the dresser because Ava keeps grabbing at them with stubby little fingers when Carol paces the room with her at night after her last feed.
Stuffed toys lay all around the room, casualties of Ava’s, and there’s a half-drunk bottle of milk on Carol’s bedside table from last night; cold and stale.
Carol’s bedroom, her whole life, has never felt so turned upside down—and yet so fulfilling at the same time.
And it’s all thanks to the woman sleeping soundly beside her.
Carol’s chest tightens—something warm blooming inside of it—as she looks over at Zosia. She still doesn’t fully understand how this became her life. How things could turn out so right, all because of one monumental screw up.
Zosia asleep in the bed they share.
Their daughter just down the hall.
Her girls.
The thought settles steady and familiar, chases away any lingering tendrils of doubt that try to claw at her.
Leaning over, she presses a soft kiss to the top of Zosia’s head before she slips out from beneath the blankets.
Zosia stirs faintly, brow furrowing at the loss of Carol’s warmth beside her, but she doesn’t wake. Three months of motherhood has already conditioned her body to take sleep whenever she can get it.
She pads quietly from the room, running through a lengthy ‘to do’ list in her mind as she closes the bedroom door over behind her. Carol heads straight for the nursery. She finds the door ajar, just how she left it, and pushes it open wider to step inside.
The baby’s room mirrors the chaos of her own.
Every surface is cluttered with toys and stuffed animals, lotion bottles and packs of diapers. The air smells sweet with that indescribable scent that babies have.
Sometimes, late at night when Ava is fussing and Carol cradles her against her shoulder as she paces the hallway in a bid to get her to sleep, Carol inhales that sweet soft scent and feels her frazzled nerves calming.
She’s pretty sure if she could bottle that new baby smell it would solve a lot of the world’s problems.
It’s a silly and whimsical thought. Carol isn’t known for her whimsy—but she finds three months with a baby in the house has started to change her thinking. Her very brain chemistry.
Maybe it’s some kind of conspiracy of mother nature. Some unknown pheromone that compels you to love this sudden intrusion in your life unconditionally.
Maybe Carol should make a video essay on it the next time Ava refuses to settle for the night.
Pushing aside all thoughts of grand biological schemes, Carol walks over to the tiny terror that now dictates her every waking moment. Ava lies in her crib, swaddled in the way Zosia insists; she read it in one of her many books on pregnancy on motherhood.
She’s awake, staring up at the mobile that turns lazily above her crib. Little yellow stars spin overhead, gentle music playing, while she lies beneath it, cooing softly to herself.
The moment Carol leans over the crib her whole face brightens, and tiny arms begin wriggling within the confines of her blanket prison.
“There’s my little burrito.” Carol greets her, face splitting open with a smile. Ava garbles, blowing spit bubbles as Carol unwraps the blanket, freeing her tiny limbs and revealing the pretty pink pyjamas Zosia dressed her in for bed last night.
Carol lifts the baby out of the crib with practised ease. When they’d first brought Ava home–almost a month premature and so small that Carol worried she might accidentally break her—Carol was weary of picking the delicate bundle up.
Now the movement is second nature.
She instinctively brings Ava up to her chest, cradling the back of the little girl’s head even though she can support it herself for short periods now. Ava flops against her, one little fist grabbing at Carol’s bed shirt, while the other reaches for her hair.
She makes happy little sounds that are still months and months away from resembling anything close to language.
“Yeah?” Says Carol, responding to the three month old anyway as she bounces her once. “You excited for today?”
Ava’s only response is to drool on her shoulder.
Carol snorts, no longer fazed by such things. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She says, carrying the happy baby over to the changing table in the corner of what had once been the master bedroom.
The room Carol shared with her wife is now unrecognisable.
The walls are the same vibrant yellow they painted in the nursery at Zosia’s house; back before Carol had summoned the courage to invite Zosia and Ava to live with her.
Shelves of soft toys line the walls, and Ava’s crib sits pride of place in the centre of the room.
“Big day today, kiddo.” Carol says, slipping practiced fingers beneath the tabs of Ava’s diaper. “It’s mommy’s day.”
Ava kicks happily—not yet concerned with arbitrary holidays like Mother’s Day. As an adult, and a partner, Carol does not enjoy such luxury. She’s spent the past week planning for this single day; wants it to be perfect.
For Zosia.
Carol carries on talking in a sing-song voice. A bad habit she seems to have picked up lately. She found herself using it on Manousos the other day—much to her neighbour’s abject horror.
“We’re gonna make momma breakfast in bed, give her the card we made her…” Carol leans down, drops her voice conspiratorally low, “Then we’re gonna surprise her with lunch with your uncles. Which means uncle Koumba fussing all over you. Yes it does.”
Ava squeals, big blue eyes staring up at Carol like she hung the moon and the stars.
“Exactly.” Carol grins, tosses Ava’s dirty diaper into the bin beside the changing table before reaching for a clean one from an open packet on the side. She makes quick work of the new diaper, something of an expert now.
“No back to front diapers for you.” Carol coos proudly, lifting Ava up in her arms again before turning and reaching into the bottom drawer of her dresser. She takes out the bag stuffed at the back of it. “Okay. Time for your special outfit.”
Ava wriggles excitedly in her arms like she understands every word.
Though, Carol thinks it probably has more to do with the rustle of the paper bag. She takes it, and Ava, over to the nursing chair in the opposite corner of the room and settles down to dress her.
Ava fusses during the entire process, tiny limbs constantly looking to escape from sleeves and pants legs.
“You are ridiculously wiggly for someone who can’t even sit up on their own yet.” Carol informs the three month old as she finishes wrestling an arm back through a sleeve for the second time.
Ava’s response is to try to shove her whole fist in her mouth, which earns a snort from Carol, “Yeah, okay. Good talk.”
With Ava finally dressed, Carol holds her up at arms length, assessing her handiwork.
Yellow leggings covered in cute little daisies, a white t-shirt with the words ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ emblazoned across the front in a cartoonish yellow font. And, finally, a tiny yellow headband adorning her head.
Ava blinks back at Carol with familiar wide blue eyes framed by thick brown curls—already making a valiant effort to escape the band.
Carol’s eyes.
Zosia had warned her the brilliant blue could change over time, but three months in and they’re still the exact shade as Carol’s. The thought makes her chest swell.
“Well,” says Carol, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Aren’t you a cutie patootie?”
Ava beams at her, her gummy smile delighted by the attention being lavished on her.
“Okay, we’ll take care of your breakfast, then mommy’s. Sound good?”
Ava gurgles and Carol nods.
“So glad you agree.”
-
By the time Carol finishes feeding Ava, the kitchen looks like a crime scene.
There’s french toast batter on the counter. Coffee ground spilled all over the floor after Ava made a grab for the bag. A piece of toast—Carol’s first attempt—burned beyond all recognition sits forgotten in the sink.
Ava sits quite happily in her bouncer, planted firmly in the centre of the kitchen island, watching the whole disaster unfold like it’s the greatest thing she’s ever seen.
Given her tender age, it’s probably close.
“You are a terrible assistant.” Carol informs her while flipping the toast in the pan. Ava gives an excited kick and lets out a delighted little shriek. “Yeah, yeah.” Carol grins at her.
Zosia’s been teaching her to cook since she and Ava moved in. Carol’s efforts are still nowhere near that of the professional chef’s, but she can manage a few basic things now without setting the kitchen on fire.
French toast happens to be one of them.
Mostly.
She glances down at the contents of the pan, pretty sure it’s at least edible.
Carol moves between the stove and the baby in an endless loop; flipping toast, pouring the coffee, shaking a stuffed giraffe dramatically when Ava starts to fuss. Eventually, she has something that could pass for a mother’s day breakfast assembled on a tray.
French toasted dusted with powdered sugar and topped with fresh berries. A mug of steaming hot coffee, silky and sweet–just how Zosia likes it. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and, to top it all off, a small vase stuffed with yellow daffodils she and Ava bought yesterday.
Carol’s eyes roam critically over the tray. “Something’s missing…” She murmurs, more to herself, but Ava answers by blowing a spit bubble and reaching for her own foot.
Carol snaps her fingers, realisation dawning on her, and Ava squeals out a giggle.
“The card. You’re totally right. Thank you, Aves.”
Carol scoops the baby up from the bouncer and carries her upstairs to her study. The large whiteboard dominating the room catches her eye the moment she steps inside.
Plot notes. Half-finished notes on story beats and chapter structures. Ideas to research.
Pregnant Raban sits circled in the centre of it all. The idea that caught in her brain and wouldn’t let go. Her first draft is almost done and ready to go to Val. She might have finished it already, if Ava didn’t consume so much of her time now.
Entire days gone in the blink of an eye with Carol hardly noticing.
She’s never been happier.
Half the time she does sit down to right, stealing an hour here and there when Ava naps through the day, she still finds herself staring at the baby instead of actually writing.
She’s changing so fast now. Laughing. Holding her head up on her own. Trying desperately to shove everything she touches into her mouth.
Carol doesn’t want to miss a second of it.
Ava sleeps in the travel cot that now takes up half of the space at the other end of the room. Carol sets her down in it while she looks for the mother’s day card they made together last week.
She finds it in her top drawer, tucked away at the back and hidden under a stack of papers. The pudgy purple handprint in the centre of the card brings a smile to her face. The paint had claimed to be washable.
It absolutely was not.
Zosia had nearly spiralled when she’d come home from the restaurant that afternoon—just checking in and showing her face—to find their daughter’s right hand now had a faintly purple hue to it.
She’d panicked.
Fearing some kind of allergic reaction, she’d almost raced Ava off to Urgent Care before Carol had admitted they’d been finger painting.
Zosia had stared at her in utter disbelief, eyes wide, chest heaving, before she’d burst out laughing. She’d been so relieved to know the cause behind the strange new hue of Ava’s skin that she hadn’t even bothered to ask what they’d been painting.
Carol grabs the card and heads back downstairs, leaving Ava in the travel cot while she fetches the breakfast tray. The last thing she wants is the baby’s grabby little hands reaching for the mug of hot coffee and scalding herself.
Zosia is still asleep when Carol nudges the bedroom door open with her hip, tray in hand.
God knows she needs the rest.
Ava’s birth wasn’t the easiest, and it certainly took its toll on Zozisa. Her body is mostly healed now, but the demands of motherhood are still exhausting sometimes. Even if Zosia won’t admit that out loud.
That’s why Carol takes the night feeds whenever she can. Sleeping with one eye open and jumping out of bed the second she hears Ava stir on the baby monitor—which purposefully sits on Carol’s side of the bed.
She sets the tray carefully on Zosia’s bedside table, the mother’s day card standing up against the vase, before going back for her partner in crime.
Ava immediately grabs for Carol’s necklace the second she picks her up again.
“You are a tiny menace,” Carol mutters softly, full of fondness as she carries the baby back to the bedroom she shares with Zosia.
She gently lowers Ava onto Zosia’s chest, and her little fists instantly clutch at Zosia’s sleep shirt.
Ava lets out a delighted squeal at being reunited with her mother, and Zosia stirs beneath her. Her eyes blink open lazily before they soften at the sight of the baby sprawled across her chest.
“Hi, piękny,” She breathes, voice thick with sleep as one hand comes up instinctively to cradle Ava’s back. She presses a kiss to the top of her curls with a smile. “Look at your pretty hairband.”
Ava giggles, the sound ringing out around the room.
Something low and warms coils in Carol’s chest at the sight of them together.
Her girls.
Zosia looks up then, eyes finding Carol’s. Soft and warm. She looks beautiful in that sleepy, rumbled way that still sets Carol’s heart on fire—no matter how many mornings she wakes up next to her.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, reaching for her. Carol, propped up on her side, leans in to meet her with a kiss.
“Morning,” she says softly against her mouth. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
“Mm?” Zosia breaks out in a smile as she pulls back.
Carol gestures proudly at the tray behind her. “Ava and I made you breakfast–and don’t worry. Ava supervised me with the knives.”
“What a good girl you are,” Zosia laughs, taking both of Ava’s tiny fists in her hands as she helps the baby sit upright on her stomach. Her eyes too unfocused to read what Ava’s shirt says.
Zosia looks at the tray, a smile stretching over her lips before she turns back to Carol, “And you, too. Thank you.”
Ava squirms, fussing as she loses Zosia’s attention. Carol scoops her up, holding the little girl’s back to her chest so she can still see her mom as Zosia fetches the tray from the sidetable.
As Zosia sits up, back against the headboard and the tray on her lap, she finally notices Ava’s new outfit. The words on her shirt.
Her whole face lights up as she says, “Oh my god, Carol, that’s so cute!”
Carol grins, “Right?”
“She looks adorable.”
“She is adorable.” Carol kisses the side of Ava’s head, much to the baby’s delight as she grabs at a lock of blonde hair and refuses to let go. “Ow—and a terror. An adorable little terrorist.”
Zosia laughs quietly as she watches Carol try to wrestle her hair free from Ava’s vice-like grip.
Her smile widens when she spots the card tucked beside the flowers on the tray, the purple handprint taking up most of the front. Picking it up, she opens and reads the note inside.
‘Happy 1st Mother’s Day, Love Ava.’
Beneath the message, clearly written by Carol, is Ava’s contribution. Several violent crayon streaks across the bottom.
Zosia raises a brow.
“I thought it’d be cute if she signed it herself.” Carol groans at the memory of trying to get the crayon back. Nothing is more powerful than the grip of a baby that has something it doesn’t want to give up.
“Mistakes were made.” Carol admits with a huff.
Zosia smirks, “Ah. What did she do?”
“Tried to eat the crayon.” Carol gives a weary sigh.
Zosia smiles softly, running her thumb over the marks on the paper. “It’s perfect. Really. Thank you.” She reaches over, pressing a kiss to Carol’s cheek.
Carol blushes, gives an awkward shrug. “I just—I wanted today to be nice for you. Special. Ava’s birth was so hard on you and—and you’re a great mom, and I know Ava will tell you that herself when she’s old enough.”
Zosia studies her carefully for a long moment, something thoughtful settling across her expression. Finally, she says, “Wait here.”
Before Carol can question it, Zosia sets the tray aside and climbs out of bed. She watches her pad over to her closet, eyes glued to Zosia’s bare legs. Carol still can’t believe this is her life now.
Carol looks down at Ava, happily grabbing fistfuls of blanket. “What do you think mommy’s doing?” She stage whispers, fully aware Zosia can hear her.
Ava answers with a sneeze.
“Super helpful, Aves.”
She looks back up just in time to see Zosia returning to bed carrying two envelopes. One large manilla folder tucked beneath her arm, and a smaller card sized envelope in hand.
She holds out the smaller one to Carol first, careful to avoid letting Ava grab at it.
“What’s this?” Carol frowns.
“Just look.”
Carol opens it carefully, slow and deliberate. The moment she realises what it is her breath catches.
A Mother’s Day card.
For her.
“Zos—” Carol looks up immediately, voice shaking. “Baby—today is your day–”
Zosia shakes her head. “Ava has two mothers,” she cuts in gently.
Carol goes quiet, eyes fixed on the card in her hand.
Zosia climbs back into bed beside her, voice gentle but steady. “I may have carried her, but she’s your daughter too.”
Carol feels her throat tighten.
“She knows your voice,” Zosia continues. “She reaches for you in a crowded room before anyone else. She smiles when she hears your voice—”
Ava smiles just then, staring up at Carol with wide blue eyes and a gummy grin.
“She has your eyes.”
Carol’s vision blurs suddenly.
“You get up with her through the night.” Zosia says, expression reverent. Filled with love. “You fuss over her constantly… You love her completely.”
Her hand comes up, resting gently against Carol’s cheek as she finishes with, “That’s what a mother does.”
Carol lets out a shaky laugh as her tears finally spill over.
Ava reaches up then, smacking her in the mouth.
Carol lets out a wet snort, “Thanks, kiddo.”
“Open it properly.” Zosia says, biting down on her lip and bringing Carol’s attention back to the card in her hand.
Carol wipes at her eyes and does as she’s told. Inside there are five simple words written in Zosia’s impossibly neat handwriting:
‘Will you be my mommy?’
Carol feels the breath being sucked out of her lungs as she reads it; then reads it again just to be sure. She looks up just in time to see Zosia sliding papers out of the larger envelope.
“What—what’s that?” Carol asks, voice shaky.
Zosia’s smile grows nervous. “These are…” she takes a deep breath. Exhales. “Application forms. For you to formally adopt Ava.”
Carol just stares.
“Life is–life is short, we both know that more than most. You’re Ava’s mom, too. And I’d like to make it official. Legal. If—if you’d like to?”
Carol looks down at the pages Zosia presses into her hands.
Application for Adoption.
Ava grabs enthusiastically for the papers, crinkling the corner in her tiny fist while Carol instinctively adjusts her, settling the little girl on her hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Zosia watches her carefully, unable to read her expression. “Well?”
Carol lets out a short laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks now; blurring the words on the form.
“Yes!” She says, “Fuck. Yes! A million times yes!” She says, and Zosia’s whole face softens with relief.
Carol reaches for her, pulling her in close while Ava squawks indignantly between them.
“I love you,” Carol sighs into Zosia’s mouth. “Both of you.”
Zosia kisses her back, smiling against her lips as Ava tries to copy, mouthing at Carol’s cheek. Wet and slobbery.
“We love you too, Carol.”