My first couple of nights in New Mexico, I’m alone in the room I’ll call home for the foreseeable future. My counselor, Grace, has assured me I won’t be alone for long. A new pledge will be arriving today, and they feel she’ll be a good match as my roommate. I haven’t shared a space with another female since college, and I’m not looking forward to the drama women in general bring. But I signed up for this, and I’ll do anything to get back into the arms of my husband.

For six months, I have frozen him out, causing him to doubt our marriage. Hell, I had doubts. It wasn’t until we made love that afternoon that I remember what I have is worth fighting for.

After they let me get settled in for two days, I wake up to a knock on the door. Our day is supposed to start at seven a.m., but I was told to sleep in. A routine would begin once I’m eased into the chores and counseling and the other responsibilities of the commune.

Grace is standing in front of me when I look at my clock, and I’m surprised to see it is almost ten a.m. I’ll see the doctor two days a week for medication management, Grace every day but Sunday, and I’m expected to take part in group therapy three times a week along with whatever Grace feels is necessary for my recovery.

“Emma, I wanted you to sleep in a bit. I hope you slept well the last couple nights?” she asks.

I did, surprisingly well, but I only smile. She makes me nervous. I have been around enough shrinks to know they automatically look at every response of mine to arrive at some quick diagnosis. Turning her head to the hall, she takes her hand and waves someone over to the door. In a matter of seconds, I’m face to face with a girl who can’t be older than sixteen. More so, she’s tiny with the largest pregnant belly I’ve ever seen, including mine.

“Grace, you can’t be serious.” It is all I can say.

Gently reaching for my hand, she pulls me out of my little dormitory and says, “Jolie, sweetheart, Emma and I are going to leave you for now to get settled.”

Smiling at this child who for some reason they think will help me face my fears of babies, I find myself shaking uncontrollably. I remember when Ty insisted I hold our baby, like that would take away the panic of her almost killing me. Faced with both this young teen-to-be mother and that of my husband, I find pounding in my ears, reverberating the memories of my failure. Before I can fall to the floor, Grace gently pulls me into a small little room off the hallway where a desk and one chair are all that inhabit the office space.

“Sit down, Emma,” she says, pointing at the chair. I don’t know Grace from Adam, but if I had to guess, I would say she is giving me her best stern but loving voice. “I knew this would be hard for you to accept.”

“YOU MEAN PUTTING ME IN A ROOM WITH A CHILD WHO IS HAVING A CHILD?” I yell.

“Well, yes. I can’t divulge Jolie’s situation with you nor can I share your treatment with her, but, Emma, you have to know we are very strategic in every choice we make for our pledges.” They must think calling us pledges instead of patients make it sound less like a hospital. I guess now that I think about it, it sort of does. Grace only continues. “It is really a way to work on your triggers. We know you are not a threat to others.”

I don’t say a word, but in the tears threatening my eyes, Grace must see something because she continues calmly. “I’m not going to say just because we choose to try something, it will always work. We are human, so in that way, if this doesn’t pan out, we will address a change. But for now, I expect you to be kind to Jolie. You are an adult with a need to be here, but, Emma, remember at the end of the day, you are still an adult.”

These words hit me from years ago. I remember when I was a bitch to Justine’s kids the first time I met them. Justine called me on that, and though I stormed off and didn’t want to admit it, she was right, as Grace is right now. My fear is from my own child who almost killed me; this child is having a child, and that baby won’t kill me.

* * *

After Grace gives me a tour of my duties, which include the showers, bathrooms, and dining room cleanup, we come upon a group therapy of other postpartum women with struggles like mine. At first, I stand back, but one of the social workers pulls me into the circle to join them. I hear so much sadness coming from these ladies, but this isn’t me. I’m not sad; I’m fucking mad. Why did the love I know I had for our baby disappear?

Molly, a woman in her late thirties, stands. It’s funny, but some of our freedom means we can wear whatever we want. I didn’t bring very much, so for now, my days will consist of yoga pants and a couple of UCLA t-shirts and tank tops I brought. Thank fuck I brought a weeks’ worth of underwear, though. Anyway, Molly stands in a pair of designer jeans that I know so well with the MM on the lower butt cheek. Her shoes have a small heel, but I still recognize the signature Louboutin look, and her top is snug against her thin frame. Molly starts, “I never wanted kids, but when I got pregnant so late in life, I looked at it as a sign that I was meant to be a mom. I loved Merrick the second I heard his heart beat. But when he was placed in my arms, I felt nothing.”

She looks down at her shoes, the pretty nude probably reflecting a little of herself in them. Then, as if she doesn’t like what is looking back at her, she turns away. “My partner would leave for work, and the second his car was out of the driveway, I would have a panic attack.” Turning around, as though she is ashamed, she continues, “I let him cry all day in his crib until my partner got home. He packed up Merrick and told me to get help or I would never see them again. He left me.” She pushes tears from her cheeks. “And I deserve it all. I don’t know where they are. Why is it that I have put some of the worst monsters away as a district attorney, but as a mom, I’ve lost myself?”

At that moment, I want to run to Tyler, who never left me even when I begged him to. I want to wrap my arms around him and thank him for never giving up on me.

* * *

When I return to the room, Jolie is asleep opposite the bed from me. She looks so peaceful and young. She has no idea what’s in store for her.

Jolie stirs while she stretches, and her shirt slides up over her belly, which is not hard to do. I remember when nothing fit and everything was uncomfortable toward the end of my pregnancy. I took it all in stride because I was going to be a mother and that was all that mattered.

I watch the lean and long body of this child as she stretches, and I wonder what her story is and if it is tragic. She really can’t be older than sixteen, if that, but with her long blond hair and what I remember of her when we were introduced, her green eyes reminded me of my sister, Jane. Though this girl is taller than Jane’s petite build, I can’t help but think of all the people I left behind. I instantly ache for Rose, who I never saw before leaving, and wonder how her baby is. Then I realize how in the past six months, I have thought of only myself and wonder if this is a good sign. Can it be said that I have been narcissistic by only thinking of myself? It’s all I can do. It sounds funny, but in my jumbled, messed-up mind, I have only had room for myself. I now have made room for two of my sisters, and then, of course, since I left my husband, I have thought of nothing more than him, too.

In my thoughts of Rose, Jane, and Ty, I look down and see Jolie watching me, now wide-awake. With a slight smile, she says, “Hey, we didn’t get a chance to meet earlier. I’m Jolie.”

It is as if I am hearing my new roommate’s name for the first time since I was against this girl staying with me at first. I love her name instantly because it is so unique. “Jolie, I’m Emma,” is all I say, and I’m not sure why, but with her smile and her age, I want to be nice to this girl. I’m sure this is why Grace paired us together, to remember how I got to be here.

She attempts to get up, and with her protruding belly, she seems stuck. I can’t help but laugh, but she’s not offended. Jolie only says, “I know this is funny, but can you help me?” She’s laughing at herself.

“Sorry, hon. I can remember when I was like that. It was not that long ago when I was asking my husband the same thing.” Having a happy memory of my pregnancy hits me with an odd revelation because I try to suppress them all. My belly knots at the idea I’m revisiting a past with our baby that doesn’t bring me anxiety. I smile at the memory of the time Tyler had to physically pull me from a low chair that I was stuck in at his parents’ house. I think of the baby for a second then place it as far out of my memory as possible. I am still not sure what to do with it.

Her eyes look over my body, and with my clothes on, there’s no evidence I carried a baby inside me. Sure, my belly is a little softer, and it’ll never be flat again. Then, there’s the gigantic scar that sits a little bit higher than a normal C-section line. I’m not sure what they used to cut me open, maybe a box cutter, by the looks of it. The scar is ugly as fuck, and I try to avoid looking at it when I’m in the shower.

“You have a baby?” she asks.

“I do.” In relative terms, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve asked about her. “I’m here for postpartum depression.” However, according to the quacks in three facilities, I have more severe postpartum psychosis.

Looking away, as I’m sure she doesn’t know what to say, she smiles. “I’ve heard this is the best facility for that.”

I only nod as she continues, “I’m not ready to discuss why I’m here. I hope it’s okay.”

I smirk at the statement, and my own blunt honesty, but I’m surprised by this girl’s openness as we’re now standing silently in our room. I break it by saying, “Sure, of course. A month ago, I couldn’t admit I was suffering from postpartum depression. But I want my husband back.”

“What about the baby?” she asks.

“She’s with her dad, but like you, I’m not ready to discuss that part of my treatment yet.”

Jolie surprises me with a large smile on her face. “That’s fair.” I find myself watching her as she walks over to her suitcase and begins to unpack.