Ten days after my C-section, my mother-in-law poured cold water over me because I wouldn’t get up and make breakfast while my husband watched.

“She’s just old-fashioned.”

“She’s trying to help.”

“You know how she is.”

That last sentence became his favorite.

You know how she is.

As though knowing someone behaves badly makes the behavior easier to live with.

Ten days after my C-section, everything changed.

Leo had one of his worst nights yet.

He started crying around eleven.

I fed him.

Changed him.

Rocked him.

Walked him down the hallway.

Sang quietly to him.

Sat with him.

Stood again.

Fed him again.

Checked everything I could think of.

Each time his eyes started to close, I thought we had finally reached the end.

Then his face would tighten and the crying would begin again.

By two in the morning, I felt as if I were moving underwater.

By three, I had stopped looking at the clock every few minutes because knowing the time only made me more tired.

Wade slept through more of it than I thought possible.

I carried Leo past the bedroom doorway once and looked at Wade lying there, turned toward his side of the bed.

For a moment I considered waking him.

Then Leo stirred against my shoulder, and I kept walking.

It was almost four before he finally settled.

I lowered him carefully, waited to make sure he wasn’t about to wake again, then eased myself onto the bed.

The visiting nurse had been there recently, and I had told her that my incision had been seeping.

She had been clear.

Limit lifting.

Limit standing.

Rest.

I had nodded as though rest were something I could simply schedule.

That morning, I lay on my side and fell asleep so completely that I didn’t dream.

I woke to the bedroom door opening.

For several seconds, I had no idea what time it was.

Then I saw Roberta standing at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips.

She hadn’t knocked.

She rarely did.

“It’s after nine,” she said.

I blinked at her.

My mouth felt dry.

“What?”

“The sun’s been up for hours.”

I pushed myself slightly higher against the pillow and immediately felt the pull in my abdomen.

Leo was still sleeping.

Roberta continued.

“I’ve been waiting for breakfast.”

I stared at her, trying to understand what I was hearing.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes. Eggs. Toast. And there’s no coffee made.”

For a moment I thought she had to be joking.

She wasn’t.

She started talking about how a proper kitchen should be kept. Then she moved into familiar territory, explaining how quickly she had been back on her feet after having children.

“I was cooking full meals within a week,” she said.

I looked toward the clock.

I had been asleep for barely five hours, and not five continuous hours in any meaningful sense.

“Leo was up until almost four.”

“You have a baby. Babies wake up.”

“I know.”

“You can’t use that as an excuse to stay in bed all morning.”

My fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.

“I’m not using anything as an excuse.”

She made a small sound of disbelief.

“You’re soft, Ivy. That’s the problem.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

When I opened them again, I forced myself to speak calmly.

“My incision was seeping yesterday. The visiting nurse told me to limit how long I stand and how much I lift.”

Roberta’s expression barely changed.

“There are eggs in the fridge,” I continued. “Coffee pods are beside the machine. Please help yourself. I’ll be up in about an hour, and if you still want something, I’ll make it then.”

She stared at me.

I waited.

Finally, she turned and walked out.

I thought that was the end of it.

I thought she had gone to the kitchen.

Less than two minutes later, I heard her footsteps again.

The door opened.

Roberta came back carrying the large glass pitcher I kept near the bed. I used it when I needed water while preparing Leo’s formula during the night.

The pitcher was full.

I barely had time to register that before she stepped closer and tipped it over me.

The water hit my face first.

Cold.

Sudden.

I inhaled sharply and jerked upright.

Water ran through my hair and down the back of my neck. It soaked my pajama top, the sheets, and the gauze covering my incision.

Leo startled awake.

His cry broke through the room.

“What are you doing?”

My voice barely sounded like mine.

Roberta lowered the empty pitcher.

“There. Maybe now you’re awake.”

I reached for Leo instinctively, turning him away from the wet bedding and pulling him against me.

My hands were shaking.

Not because the water was cold.

Because I couldn’t process the fact that she had actually done it.

Then I looked toward the bedroom doorway.

Wade was standing there.