Epilgue

Tatum sits sobbing in the bed, her eyes locked on mine as I hold the little screaming bundle in my arms. I look down at my sweet, perfect, and very loud son, Maxwell Mason. Tatum rubs her eyes, her chest heaving up and down, and I can’t help but laugh. I know it’s an awful thing to do, especially considering the circumstances, but I can’t help it. Tatum looks beautiful and exhausted.

“Babe, go to sleep.” I insist and she shakes her head no.

“Why won’t he sleep?” she blubbers. “I am so tired,”

“Tater tot.” I say firmly, “Then go to sleep. I’ve got him. He is okay. He just needs a change and a bottle.”

“But I should be able to nurse him,” she sobs, looking at her hands in her lap.

“Ah.” I sigh. So that’s the actual issue. Tatum’s milk supply has yet to come in and it is the third week. My poor sweet mate wanted nothing more than to be a mother and be a perfect one. And now that she has a baby, she feels like she isn’t enough because she can’t breastfeed him.

“Look at me,” I say, walki