Rowdy & Joy

*First two chapters are free. After that it's exclusive to tier 1 and up, until release.

Joy:

I am standing in the kitchen at dawn, but the word “standing” isn’t right. It’s more like I’m bracing—palms against the chipped edge of the counter, toes curling in thin socks, shoulder blades hunched forward so deep it’s almost fetal. The cold tile seeps up through the soles of my feet and into my bones.

Still wearing the same pajamas as yesterday. The knees have sagged out, the elastic at the waist is giving up, and the purple-banded top is dotted with old stains—formula, maybe, and something faintly orange I’m not interested in identifying. I haven’t changed because there hasn’t been a window for changing. Not yesterday. Not yet today.

My hair is… God, I don’t even want to think about it. I catch a reflection in the microwave, just a flash, and it looks like a wild animal nested up there. A squirrel or chipmunk. I can’t remember if I brushed it last night before bed. No, not bed—before I crashed on the couch, because Emily fell asleep on my chest and moving her seemed criminal.

Now, she’s awake and letting me know it.

She’s in her highchair, a few feet away from me, legs kicking like she’s warming up for a half-marathon. There’s a smudge of dried peas on the tray from last night’s dinner, but I’m focused on her hands, which are sticky with formula. Same as the entire front portion of her shirt. The bib lasted about six seconds before she ripped at the Velcro and flung it across the room. I can see it on the floor, crumpled near the breakfast nook, but the idea of bending down and picking it up feels about as achievable as climbing Everest.

Emily’s cries start like this: whimpers, more complaint than true outrage. I can handle those. I talk over them, try to keep my voice soft, steady, like the YouTube videos told me would help. “Hey, baby. Hey, Em. Almost done. Almost got it…” But she’s onto me, somehow, eyes wide and green and infinitely disappointed.

She can smell my anxiety.

I wipe food from her hands, using a paper towel that immediately shreds and leaves behind bits of itself. It’s impossible to get her clean. The stickiness spreads, multiplies, ends up dotting my sleeve. I dab at her face, but Emily twists away, escalating her protests from simple cries to something higher, sharper—a sound engineered to shred a parent’s attention.

The mountain of dishes in the sink is not a metaphor. It’s an actual mountain. Bowls with dried oatmeal cemented to the rim, bottles in every stage of not-clean, two mugs from yesterday’s desperate attempt at caffeine (both unfinished—one with a lipstick stain, the other with a tide pool of gray coffee at the bottom). Spoons, measuring cups, a plastic teething ring that somehow wound up in there. I grab at the top layer, fingers sliding against a greasy sippy cup lid, and instantly regret my life choices.

Emily ramps up. Not a warning this time. Full-body, red-faced wailing. She arches her back, rocking the highchair, and my heart jumps into my mouth. I can’t remember if I buckled her in. Did I? I move fast—almost drop the spoon in my hand, bridge the two steps between us, and check the strap with trembling fingers. Yes. Secure. I exhale, but the relief is microscopic compared to the pressure building everywhere else.

The bottle I thought was clean is definitely not. I sniff it and immediately recoil. I toss it in the sink and paw through the rest, desperate to give Emily a little bit more formula since she’s still hungry. My pulse in my ears. Emily’s shrieks now approaching glass-break territory.

“Okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself, because who else is going to listen? “Okay, okay, okay. We’re gonna get through this. Formula, clean bottle, that’s all. Simple.”

But nothing is simple. Nothing is even close.

I finally find the bottle that looks the least disgusting and—miracle—it has the right nipple. My fingers fumble the pieces. I rinse it under warm water, scrubbing with my least favorite bottle brush because the “good one” is lost or possibly just dead to me now. I stare at the rack of drying bottles above the sink, willing there to be a backup, but no. All empty except for one, and it’s an off-brand bottle Emily has rejected every time.

Her screams escalate. I think about the neighbors, whether they can hear her through the walls. Whether they judge me, catalog the daily decibel levels.

God, my head hurts.

The measuring scoop slips from my grasp and buries itself in the formula powder. I fish it out, knuckles scraping against the edge of the canister, and try again. The scoop shakes so badly I can’t pour cleanly into the bottle—half goes in, half scatters across the counter, sticking to my damp fingers. My eyes sting. Not from tears, not yet, but from the sheer exhaustion of having to care so much, constantly, and never get it right.

I check the water temperature against my wrist. Too cold? Too hot? I can’t even trust basic sensory input anymore, then cap the bottle and shake it, There’s formula all over my knuckles, but I ignore it. I twist and click everything into place, then blow on the nipple, because I read somewhere that’s supposed to help.

Emily’s hands are wild, grasping, reaching for the bottle, but she’s so mad now she can barely coordinate. I wipe her face, one more time, even though it’s pointless.

“Here,” I say, breathless, like I’ve just sprinted a mile. “Here, Em. I’ve got you. Finally.”

I pop the bottle in her mouth and she latches, instantly reducing her volume by half. Her eyes close, lashes fluttering. There’s formula on her cheeks, in her eyebrows.

A second stretches out. I lean on the counter, arms shaking. The air is thick with formula dust and the ghost of sleepless nights. The kitchen looks wrecked. Dirty dishes, light slashing across every flaw, the pile of burp cloths nearly toppling off the table, and the faintest outline of my foot in a pool of formula on the floor. I don’t even remember spilling it.

I could sit down, but I’m afraid if I do, I won’t get up again.

I catch sight of the baby’s bib, still crumpled under the chair. I make a mental note to pick it up. Later.

Emily makes a little hum around the bottle. Not quite content, but no longer throwing daggers into my eardrums. I exhale, then inhale again.

The mountain of dishes is there, waiting. The sticky hands. The fact that I’m still in pajamas, unbrushed, unwashed, barely holding on.

Rowdy enters the kitchen not with a greeting, not even with eye contact, but with his thumbs already scrolling over his phone screen. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d spent the past hour standing outside the door, waiting for the precise moment all the crying stopped.

He beelines for the far counter, plants himself there—half-turned, body angling away from me and Emily, like he’s afraid the chaos might be contagious. His back is rigid, jaw set, face illuminated blue by the glow of endless job listings. The only time he looks at me is a quick, glancing sweep across the room.

“Morning,” he mutters, eyes barely flickering up.

Emily squawks. Not quite crying, but protesting the sudden lack of attention. She wriggles, small fists grabbing at my hair, rooting for something I can’t give. So I pick her up and bounce her, trying not to wince when she catches a chunk and tugs, hard. My arms are already burning, the good kind of fatigue gone six months ago, replaced by this deep, hollow ache.

I clear my throat. “Can you take her while I finish these dishes?” The words sound too formal, like I’m asking a favor from a stranger, not the person I married.

He glances up. Nods. But if I blinked, I’d miss the moment. He reaches out just enough to accept Emily, then repositions her like an awkward package. She squirms, twisting to keep me in her sightline. He doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. He still manages to use his other hand to go back on the phone, thumb-jabbing away, screen lit up with career searches.

He used to cradle her with both hands, rock her gently, humming while preparing breakfast. Now he holds her with a single arm and body leaning away. I clock every movement, every micro-expression: the relief when I let go, the way he avoids meeting Emily’s eyes. Like if he doesn’t look, he won’t have to register how much she needs him.

I go to the sink, which is somehow even more tragic in context—Rowdy on one side of the kitchen, me on the other, the gaping mess between us. He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I.

Emily squirms in Rowdy’s grip. He adjusts once, then again, never pausing his scrolling. “Shh,” he murmurs, but it’s automatic. She doesn’t buy it. Her feet kick at his ribs. He flinches, barely. I catch the motion in the corner of my eye as I scrub at the crusted oatmeal on a bowl, wishing for a moment that I could vanish into the suds.

He used to ask about my night. Ask if the baby slept, if I slept, what was on the schedule. Now, nothing—just the tap of his thumb against glass, the world inside his phone so much more compelling than the disaster of our kitchen. Than the disaster of our life, really.

Rowdy says nothing. I say nothing. The baby cries. The cabinets sag. The mess gets louder and louder, even though no one raises their voice.

That’s the part that kills me. How quiet the damage can be.

I rinse the last bottle, line it up on the drying rack. Emily buries her face in Rowdy’s shirt, frustrated, wanting more. He peers at her for a second, then sighs and rocks his weight from one foot to the other, as if the motion alone could satisfy her. He’s not rough, not careless—just indifferent. Like he’s already gone, mentally, somewhere I can’t follow.

On the fridge is a magnet with our wedding date, another with a photograph from Emily’s first week home. The baby in that picture looks like she belongs to someone else—someone who knew how to smile without faking it, who had time to care about her appearance. I look away fast, focus on the suds clinging to my wrists.

Moments later Rowdy’s voice slices across the mess. “I have to go. There’s a job interview in thirty, and I need to leave now to beat traffic.”

He’s in motion before I can process the words. Phone pocketed, body loose with something like adrenaline. It’s the most awake he’s looked since—God, I can’t remember. Weeks?

For one hot second, everything in me stills. As if my body can’t keep up with the new tempo, the sudden energy draining all the oxygen from the room. Then there’s resignation, a kind of old, dull ache. Of course he has a job interview. Of course he didn’t mention it until now. Why would he?

I wipe my hands on a towel. “Do you need help? Shirt, resume… anything?” I sound like an assistant.

He’s already in front of the microwave, checking his reflection in the glass. He smooths his hair, pats at the neck of his shirt, quick and practiced. “No, I’ve got it.” The answer is clipped, no room for follow-up.

I try not to show how much it stings.

Emily picks this exact moment to start fussing again—she can sense the shift, always does. Her whimper goes up a full decibel before I can pivot, scoop her off the counter, and juggle baby, bottle, and a fresh slick of formula that immediately stains my sleeve. I dab at the spot with a paper towel, but it only spreads.

Rowdy walks through our open house layout, going from the kitchen to entryway in exactly five steps. Then, he shrugs into his jacket. The motion is effortless, like it’s muscle memory from the before-times. He doesn’t look at me, or Emily, just scans the kitchen—maybe for his keys, maybe just to avoid having to say anything that matters.

I bounce Emily, try every rhythm I know. Her cries escalate. She wants both of us, or maybe just not to be abandoned here, with the dishes and the detritus of a morning that never really started right. I whisper to her, “It’s okay, Em. I’m here. I’m here.” But the words feel false, or at least not enough.

Rowdy stands by the door, one hand on the knob. Finally, he glances back, barely meets my eyes. “Wish me luck.”

He’s gone before I can answer.