It had been a few months since Macy first began living as Jess’s baby daughter. Jess’s pregnancy had advanced to the point where even simple tasks—carrying Macy, cleaning up after accidents, calming her during meltdowns—had become exhausting. Her belly was heavy, her feet swollen, and her patience thinner by the day, no matter how fiercely she loved her baby.
Lauren noticed. She always did. One morning, over breakfast, she gently placed a brochure beside Jess’s cereal bowl.
“Just think about it,” she said with a soft smile. “It’s a good place. A few hours a day, just to help you rest before the baby comes.”
Jess hesitated. The idea of being apart from Macy, even for a few hours, sent an anxious flutter through her chest. But she looked at her daughter—currently trying to eat a sticker off the high chair tray—and knew Lauren was right.
Macy’s First Day
Macy didn’t understand where they were going at first. Jess spoke to her in the same soft baby-talk she always used, buckled her into the car seat, kissed her forehead, and said it was a “special day.” But as soon as they arrived at the bright building with the colorful murals and strange smells, Macy grew uneasy. The moment Jess knelt down to kiss her goodbye, Macy’s lip trembled.
“Ma...ma...?” she whimpered.
“I’ll be back soon, sweetheart. I promise,” Jess whispered, fighting tears of her own. She gave one last squeeze before the daycare worker gently lifted Macy from her arms.
From the inside, Macy watched Jess disappear through the glass doors.
Her first reaction was confusion, then panic. Where was she? Why was everything so loud? The other kids were screaming, babbling, hitting blocks together. The lights were too bright. The air smelled like baby wipes and peanut butter.
Everything was wrong.
She tried to cry, but it came out in choked sobs and hiccups. She hated this. She hated how her legs didn’t work properly, how her tongue wouldn’t shape the words she was thinking. I wanna go home, she thought. But what she said was, “Wan’ mama…”
A pair of arms scooped her up.
“It’s okay, little one,” said a woman’s voice—calm, older, patient. “I’ve got you.”
The caregiver—Miss Renée—was nothing like Jess or Lauren. She wasn’t gentle in a pampering way, but firm and secure. She rocked Macy with an easy rhythm, whispered soothing sounds, and hummed a lullaby that Macy couldn’t place but somehow made her chest feel lighter.
The Adjustment
The first few days were rough. Macy didn’t like the food, or nap time, or the way the other babies drooled on toys she wanted. And despite having a sixteen-year-old mind, she couldn’t string together coherent thoughts for more than a few seconds. Everything got foggy. Feelings overran thoughts. When she was hungry or scared or overstimulated, the only thing she could do was cry.
Why can’t I think straight anymore? she wondered once, mid-nap, staring at the ceiling. But by the time she tried to hold on to that question, it had already slipped away, like water through fingers.
There was one small light that helped.
A Friend
On her third day, Macy noticed a baby boy who wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t crying or screaming. He was stacking blocks—not well, but with a determination that reminded her of something... or someone. When their eyes met, the boy made a strange little noise, then flopped down beside her with a toy car in his mouth.
Macy blinked.
He handed her the car. Drool-covered, but sincere.
For some reason, it made her laugh. A hiccuping, snorty, little laugh that turned into a giggle.
They weren’t friends in the way she used to define friendship. There were no deep conversations or inside jokes. Just shared toys, parallel naps, and little hand squeezes when things got scary.
Miss Renée called him "Cody." Macy started looking for him each morning—whether she was screaming or smiling.
A Strange Comfort
By the end of the first week, Macy no longer cried when Jess dropped her off. She still felt strange—mentally older than she seemed, but increasingly less able to grasp that feeling. Her days were filled with short-lived joys and disappointments: a toy she liked, a snack she hated, a hug that made her warm inside.
She didn’t think about who she used to be. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she just… couldn’t. Every time her thoughts reached for something deeper, they slipped, got muddled, or vanished.
But she remembered Jess.
Jess’s smile, her scent, the way she wiped Macy’s face even when she didn’t want her to.
And at nap time, when Miss Renée rubbed her back and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Macy,” she clutched her blanket, closed her eyes, and thought—Mama’s coming soon.
And that was enough.