For a moment, Maya looked as though she was about to cry.
Then her phone vibrated.
The softness disappeared from her face.
“You don’t know what it feels like to live my life,” she said, and walked away.
By Friday, Maya had convinced herself that everyone was against her. Her mother called too often. Mrs. Linda watched too closely. The baby cried too much. The walls felt too narrow. Every bottle, every diaper, every sleepless hour seemed like proof that her youth had been stolen from her.
Then the message from her friends arrived.
A house by the lake outside the city.
Three days.
Music, drinks, boys, no responsibilities.
One of them wrote:
“Girl, you need to get your life back.”
Maya read that sentence while standing beside the crib.
Her son was sleeping in a yellow onesie with tiny white clouds. One sock had slipped off his foot and rested near the edge of the blanket. His fingers were curled near his cheek, and his mouth moved gently in his sleep.
