I was sitting on a bench under the big oak tree at Maple Park, holding my daughter close while feeding her from a bottle. It was one of the first sunny days we’d had in weeks, and I just wanted to enjoy it—her little fingers wrapped around mine, birds chirping, the breeze warm on my face. The kind of quiet moment I had fantasized about during so many sleepless nights.

We were finally settling into a rhythm, my little girl and me. She was eight weeks old, soft as a cloud and just as fleeting in her expressions. I was still getting used to calling myself “Mom.” The word felt strange in my mouth, like a dress that hadn’t quite been tailored to fit yet. But it would, eventually.

A woman, maybe mid-forties, walked up with the kind of confidence you only get from believing the universe gave you a badge. She had a linen sling diagonally across her chest, a baby tucked inside like royalty. She tilted her head at me, lips pressed together like she’d just tasted something sour.

“You know breast is best, right?” she said. No hello. Just that. I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She gestured toward the bottle in my hand like it was filled with antifreeze. “You really should try harder. Formula’s just not the same. Poor baby.”

My chest tightened. That phrase—it always cut deep. Like I was robbing my daughter of something she deserved. I took a deep breath and stood up, cradling my daughter more tightly.

“You want to know something?” My voice wavered, but I didn’t stop. “I spent six years trying to get pregnant. Six years of hormone shots, surgeries, miscarriages, and crying alone in bathroom stalls after every failed test.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but I wasn’t about to give her a chance to speak.

“I finally accepted that my body couldn’t do it. We adopted. Two years of paperwork, interviews, background checks, and waiting by the phone. And one day, we got the call.”