BPOV
I am taken by surprise at the cafe. I'd been enjoying today. Edward's working at the hospital, so I bundled Elizabeth up into her stroller and walked to the Book Fair.
The smell of old books stacked onto trestle tables in the hall was promising. Last year I bought a book of names here. Elizabeth's middle name is Renee, after mom.
Today, I discover Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Peter Rabbit and show it to Elizabeth. That raised a smile from a woman who said "She's beautiful. How old?"
"Six weeks."
"She doesn't have your lovely brown hair, then?" the woman observed.
"Bald with a hint of red, I guess."
"Your first?"
I nodded and we exchanged a conspiratorial smile. I have just discovered this 'mothers' smile. People talk to me all the time when I'm with Elizabeth. I'm public properly because I have a new baby. I don't mind.
The cafe beckoned. I found a seat, organised Elizabeth in the shade and sipped my cappuccino. I noticed three generations of women opposite me – gran, mother and two little girls. It's a small down. I've seen them but I don't know them. The gran and mother are older and younger versions of each other, petite and blonde with generous smiles. They're always together. I watched them, although I couldn't hear them. The gran's eyes, exaggerated circles to reflect the girls' excitement as cakes arrived, the companionable conversation between the adults as they mirrored each other's positions, elbows on the table.
Suddenly, I'm taken by surprise by a wave of yearning. I was 17 when my mom died. I drain my cup. Blink determinedly and head home.
Elizabeth is due a feed. I sit at the kitchen table, and she latches onto my breast. A bubble of joy rises, like champagne in a flute, filling me with tenderness.
I stroke Elizabeth's fist, balled up, intent on her task. She opens it up and curls it around my finger. Now I watch, thinking of the choices she'll make. Where those choices will take these hands. Whose hands she'll hold, the work she'll do, at an easel or computer, or tending plants. The things that will make them clap.
I didn't know I'd fall in love with her when she was born. Didn't expect to be so infatuated and wake in the mornings eager to see her. I wonder is everyone else knows, if it's well advertised and I just missed the billboard.
I hear Edward come in, and the kitchen shrinks with his presence. He kisses me and says, "Where's my girl?" Then he takes Elizabeth, tiny in his hand and strokes her back. I smile. "Good day?" he asks.
I begin to tell him. Gently he sets Elizabeth down to kick on the rug. He brings me some tea and sits opposite, green eyes attentive.
"...I don't know why I got upset. There have been big occasions – our wedding, when Elizabeth was born – when I've thought of mom and felt quite calm. But today it just hit me. It's the little things. Sharing a coffee, not knowing my mom as an adult, as a friend. Shouldn't I be over this by now? Is something wrong with me?"
Edward doesn't speak. Then he reaches out, hands across the table and takes hold of mine.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Bella. Losing your mom so young is something you can get used to but not get over. I think the loss will always be with you, and something you'll have the moments of sadness. Maybe you need to accept that." We entwine our fingers.
Elizabeth squeals. Edward picks her up.
"What's the matter with you, young lady? Not getting enough attention?"
He nuzzles into her neck and she makes a delicious, unfamiliar sound.
"Did you hear that?" Edward asks. "Did you hear that, Bella? She's laughing!"
We smile in delight. Our daughter's laughter is filling our home for the first time.