A Mother's Love by Mary Morris Page A

kick them off in the night. We stood silently, watching the child. Soon I felt Matthew’s fingers wrapping themselves around mine, as we remained side by side, looking down at the baby. I’m not sure how long we stood there before he said, “I love you, Ivy. You know I do.” And of course I did.
    He turned me to him and kissed me. His tongue reached deep into my mouth; his hands gripped my back, holding me firm. He was hard,throbbing against my thigh, and he held me to him for a long time, which I did not mind because I didn’t know what I wanted to happen next. My heart beat quickly, but not from desire. Rather, it pounded the way it did when someone jumped out of a dark corner and frightened me.
    â€œIs this the right thing?” I asked, pulling away.
    He stood back so that he could see my face. “I want you,” he said, “But more than that, I’d like to try again. I’d like to spend time with you”—he paused—“and with Bobby.” He looked down sheepishly, as if he’d just confessed to a pointless lie.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’m not completely sure. I’m never sure of anything. I can’t make any promises.”
    I smiled, putting my fingers to his lips. “You never could.”
    I wanted to ask him to leave, but I was surprised by a wave that rushed over me, as warm and comforting as when my milk let down, yet with an urgency I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since I was a girl, I thought, sneaking out of the house to meet boys I scarcely knew in places where I wasn’t supposed to be. There was something dangerous, something slightly naughty about what I felt. Now he pulled me close so that my head rested against his shoulder. Gently he touched my breasts, which were heavy and sore.
    We made love slowly as if it were our first time,and indeed it was the first time since I’d gone to his studio when I was four months pregnant. My body seemed huge, my breasts full, and the slowness suited my mood and my physical state. It wasn’t exactly desire I felt, for motherhood had sapped and supplemented much of that, but it was a kind of comfort I had not experienced in a long while. As he sucked on my breasts, the milk flowed and he told me it was sweet as coconut juice. This made him more tender with me. He entered me gently, careful not to cause any pain, and he stayed inside for a long time.
    Afterward we lay in each other’s arms until Bobby cried. “Don’t get up,” Matthew said. “I’ll go. You rest.” Matthew took Bobby onto his shoulder. I lay still, watching them. Matthew warmed a bottle on the stove as he clumsily cradled Bobby. He would grow accustomed to this. In a few months he would see. Life could go on. He would be a good father. It would come naturally.
    He gave the baby the bottle, but Bobby fussed, spitting out the milk. “It’s all right,” I said. “He wants me.” So Matthew brought him to the bed. Another warm wave rushed over me as milk filled my breasts. The sensation that had once caused me so much pain now came with intense pleasure. Matthew put Bobby next to me and turned out the light. We lay there, the three of us together. Bobby’s damp hair smelled like a puppy’s. A kind of peace came over me as I felt hands at mybreasts, mouths sucking, unsure if it were my lover or my son or both, who touched, who suckled, and, somehow nursing both of them, I drifted in and out of sleep.
    After a while, I eased my way out of bed, leaving Matthew and Bobby on separate pillows. They lay like bookends, face to face, mirror images of each other, though I didn’t want to admit it. I went to the mirror and saw my body in the moonlight. It was a strange body, foreign to me, thicker than I remembered it. My breasts looked pendulous, like the hanging teats of stray dogs I used to throw stones at as a child. But now I could see the beginning of a waistline,