She said it. I swear to God. Say it again.” You crouched down and jiggled her hips. “Come on. Mama.”

“Honey, she’s eleven months old. It’s too early, isn’t it?” I had met you back at the park, coffee for us in my hands. We were surrounded by other young families doting on their kids, looking various stages of cold and tired. I smiled at a mom who was standing nearby clutching a snotty tissue. “I mean, I spend every day with her, she’s never said it before.”

“Mama,” you prompted her again. “Ma-maaa.”

Violet pouted and ambled toward the swings.

“I can’t believe you missed it. Right when you left for the coffee. She pointed in your direction and said Mama. Mama. Three times, I think, actually.”

“Oh. Okay, well—that’s amazing. Wow.” It didn’t seem like something you’d lie about, but it was hard to believe. You lifted her into the baby swing.

“I wish I’d caught it on video. I wish you heard it.” You shook your head and watched her in awe, your baby genius, rocking in her seat so you’d push her higher. I gave you your coffee and slipped my hand in the back pocket of your jeans like I used to do. We felt so normal among the other young families like ours, killing time on Sunday morning, savoring the caffeine.

“Mama!”

“Did you hear that?” You jumped back from the swing.

“Oh my God. I heard it!”

“Say it again!”

“Mama!”

I spilled my coffee lumbering toward her in the playground sand. I grabbed the front of the swing and pulled her close to kiss her square on her wet lips. “Yes! Mama!” I said to her. “That’s me!”

“Mama!”

“I told you!”

You squeezed my shoulders from behind and we stared at her as I pretended to tickle her feet when the swing came toward us. She was laughing then, saying my name over and over to watch our reactions. I was mesmerized by her. We swayed ever so slightly together, and I reached up to feel the weekend’s scruff on your chin. You turned my face toward you and kissed me, brief, happy, carefree. Violet watched us. We stood like that for what felt like hours.

She fell asleep in the stroller on the way home. It had been so long since I’d felt this connected to either of you, and I clung to the bliss of it—the lightness of my legs as we walked, the satisfying depth of my long, full breath. You carried her to her crib, careful not to wake her, and I slipped her tiny boots off while she slept. I turned in the hallway toward the kitchen, to clean the mess of breakfast we’d left for later. But you tugged at my arm. You pulled me into the bathroom and ran the shower. I leaned on the counter and watched you undress.

“Come in with me.”

I thought of the half avocado still sitting on the counter, the rubber eggs left in the pan. It had been so long since we’d touched each other.

“Come on, Mama.”

I’d just stepped in when we heard her little voice start to crack from down the hall. She was waking up. I reached for the faucet, thinking you’d want to run for her before she cried.

“Stay, we’ll be quick,” you whispered, already hard, and so I did. Her noises became more urgent, a reminder she was there, but you didn’t stop. You’d wanted me more than her. I was repulsed with myself for the satisfaction this gave me as we fucked, for letting this turn me on as much as it did. I listened for her through the echo of the water. I wanted to hear her wail, to imagine you ignoring her like I sometimes did. We came fast together under the weak flow of the showerhead.

You shut off the water abruptly as soon as we finished. She was quiet. She hadn’t started screaming like I’d been waiting for, like she did when it was just me. You tossed me a towel like my teammate in a locker room—you used to dry my body off slowly, it had once been part of what we did together. Violet’s voice was soft in the distance, a meaningless scale of sounds, and I pictured her on her back, legs in the air, pulling at her sweaty toes. It was as though she knew you’d be there to get her soon. You wrapped another towel around your waist, kissed my bare shoulder, and you went to her.

Back in the kitchen you made us grilled cheese sandwiches while I tidied up the browning scraps from breakfast. You hummed and touched me whenever I was in reach. She said it over and over again as she watched for your reaction, kicking her legs in her high chair: Mama. Mama.

1968

Etta wasn’t always unpredictable. There were stretches of time when she figured out how to look and act like the kind of person a mother was expected to be. Cecilia sensed this wasn’t easy for her—she saw it sometimes in the way Etta’s hands shook nervously when another mother knocked on their door to say hello, or when Cecilia asked for a braid in her hair. But nobody was scrutinizing Etta by then. The truth was they’d all given up. And yet something inside her made Etta want to try anyway. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. But Cecilia rooted for her each and every time.

When Cecilia was in the sixth grade, there was a school dance after the holiday break, and she had nothing to wear—they didn’t go to church and didn’t celebrate much. This wasn’t something Cecilia cared or complained about, but Etta said she would make her something special to wear. Cecilia was speechless—she’d never seen her mother make a thing. The next day, Etta came home from the fabric store and called up the stairs.