Morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy kitchen curtains of June and Hank's house. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee mingled with the delicate sweetness of cinnamon oatmeal cooling on the stovetop. Clara's soft babbles came from the living room where she played on her mat, flanked by stuffed animals and a few overturned board books.
At the kitchen table, Ava sat in leggings and a loose cotton top, Maeve asleep against her chest in a wrap. Her dark hair was tied in a quick bun, and though exhaustion painted subtle shadows under her eyes, there was a quiet lightness in her expression. June joined her moments later, carrying two mugs—one decaf for herself and one strong and steaming for Ava.
"I made it extra strong," June said as she sat down with a smirk.
Ava sighed in gratitude. "You're an angel."
For a moment, they simply sipped in silence, both of them watching the living room with maternal alertness, that sixth sense that never fully turned off. Clara squealed with delight as she discovered her own foot, then promptly rolled onto her belly and grunted in frustration.
"I swear she's going to skip crawling and just go straight to drama school," June said.
Ava laughed softly. "She's expressive. That's a gift."
"And a handful."
They shared a knowing glance—the kind of look only women in the thick of motherhood could truly understand. One that said: I see you. I'm tired too. But we're still here. We're doing it.
Ava leaned back slightly, adjusting Maeve's position. "Some days I wonder if I'll ever feel like myself again."
June blinked at her. "You mean beyond being 'mom'?"
Ava nodded. "I love them more than anything, but it's like… Ava, the writer, the woman who wandered bookshops for hours just because—it feels like she's off somewhere on a vacation without me."
June exhaled, the sound laced with recognition. "Yes. I feel that too. I used to read novels in bed and paint when I couldn't sleep. Now I collapse into bed and pray Clara sleeps past 3 a.m."
Ava smiled ruefully. "We're lucky. And we're grateful. But we're also stretched."
They both looked down at their daughters, sleeping and playing, so unaware of the fierce, gentle wars their mothers were fighting silently—wars of identity, of selfhood, of carving space within motherhood without guilt.
"You know what helped me this week?" June asked.
"What?"
"I made a rule: ten minutes just for me every morning. Not baby-related. No chores. Just June. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I dance in the kitchen with music too loud for 8 a.m. Sometimes I just sip coffee and look out the window. It's small. But it reminds me I still exist outside of bottles and bedtime."
Ava nodded, soaking in the wisdom. "I think I need that. Even if it's just to write a few lines in a notebook."
"You should," June said. "Maeve deserves to know her mother as more than just a caretaker. She deserves to know Ava, the woman who writes like the world depends on her words."
Ava blinked back unexpected tears. "How are you always this good at saying what I need to hear?"
June smiled, her eyes warm. "Because I need to hear it too."
A soft whimper came from the wrap, and Maeve stirred. Ava shifted slightly, bouncing gently until the baby settled again.
"I think about what we're teaching them," Ava murmured. "Not just how to eat or sleep. But what it means to be a woman. What it means to love yourself while loving others."
June reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Then let's keep showing them. Together."
The moment was soft and sacred—two women holding space for each other in the middle of chaos, diapers, feeding schedules, and fragmented sleep.
Clara let out a delighted giggle from the living room as she grabbed her stuffed bunny and wiggled victoriously.
June grinned. "She's officially defeated Mr. Snuggles."
Ava laughed and stood carefully. "Come on, let's document her triumph."
They moved into the living room, where Maeve woke up just in time to join the giggling. The women sprawled on the floor next to their daughters, the late morning sun warming the room. June picked up her phone and snapped a candid photo: Ava cradling Maeve, both of them smiling; Clara beaming beside them; books and blankets all around.
"This is the real stuff," Ava said.
"It really is," June agreed.
Ava looked over. "When the kids are older, we'll tell them how we found ourselves again—bit by bit—while holding them."
June nodded, eyes glistening. "And how they helped us do it."