In that moment something inside her didn’t break apart.
It broke open.
She sat in the rocking chair by the crib, unfastened her dress with trembling fingers, and brought the baby to her breast.
“Come on,” she pleaded. “Please. Just try.”
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then his mouth opened.
He turned, latched, and began to suck.
Janelle gasped. Her whole body went still, then shuddered with relief so fierce it hurt.
He drank, weak at first, then stronger.
Color returned to his cheeks, slow and miraculous.
His tiny fist uncurled and clutched her dress like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Tears spilled down Janelle’s face. She began to hum without meaning to, the old gospel tune her grandmother taught her, the one she’d sung to Mara in the dark.
The song of walking through valleys and finding a light you didn’t deserve but needed anyway.
Rain began tapping the window, soft at first, then steady.
Janelle rocked and hummed and fed this stranger’s baby with milk meant for her own dead daughter.
And for the first time in months, her grief felt… purposeful. Still painful. Still hers. But no longer pointless.
Then boots thundered on the stairs.
Fast. Heavy. Urgent.
Janelle’s breath stopped.
The loft door slammed open.
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