My apartment is quiet without Harriet here. Too quiet. Mine and Jackson's custody agreement is amicable and reasonable, but that doesn't mean I like the time spent apart from my baby.

As I wait for leftovers to heat up in the microwave, I stare at the empty high chair attached to the kitchen counter and sigh. Four nights out of the week, there's a very giggly little girl in that high chair, usually getting food everywhere possible.

But on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, I'm alone making dinner. The only sounds in the house right now are the dryer running and the soft radio playing in the background, neither of which I want.

I want to hear my baby talking nonsense to me, babbling her first word that came out just last week.

I smile, I can practically hear her little voice saying it. Mama, mama, mama !

Jackson and I were spending time together - platonic time, coparent time - when it happened. He came over here to drop something off, I can't remember what it was now, and Harriet was waking up from a nap. I was busy amongst a heap of laundry in the living room, so he did me a favor and went to grab the baby from her crib and change her, typical wake-up routine.

He'd brought her back to the living room and sat on the couch behind me, the baby on his thigh as he flipped stations to find a sports game of any kind. Harriet was fussy and whiny, but he was talking to her and trying to calm her down while bouncing his knee up and down. All it was doing was bouncing her complaints, which is something she usually finds funny, but she didn't that day.

"Such a whiner-butt," he'd said, tone joking. "Just like Mama. Such a whiner-butt like your mama!"

I looked over my shoulder, playfully glowering at him. Ever since I moved out, we've been getting along significantly better. It's easy to spend time around each other without tension or fighting. It feels like we're returning to what we used to be - best friends. Even though now, we're best friends with history.

Harriet grunted and reached her arms out for me, a desperate expression on her face. "Mama…" she said desperately.

My eyes grew wide and my mouth fell open. "What did she say?" I asked, looking up at Jackson. "Did she just say 'mama?'" I looked back to the baby. "Say it again, baby girl. Say, 'mama!' Say, 'mama!'"

She stretched her arms further, so I lifted her onto my lap and begged her once again to say it. Then, with a little grin, she did.

Mama, mama, mama!

The microwave beeps, jolting me out of my reverie. I want my baby back. Sunday night can't come fast enough.

The days pass slow. I see Jackson at the hospital and he gives me little updates on how she's doing; he tells me that she's spouting off her new word at any given chance.

That fact makes my heart swell. I can't wait to have her back home with me, saying 'mama' to my face.

"I really thought her first word would be Dada," Jackson says, shaking his head while pretending to be disappointed. "Damn it. Dream crushed."

I chuckle and adjust the lapel of my lab coat. "Get used to it," I say, and he sighs. "Oh, stop. She'll say 'dada' soon enough."

He laughs, brightening up. "Yeah, until then I'll have to deal with her screaming 'mama' at the top of her lungs like it's going out of style."

I can't stay much longer because I get paged, so I tell Jackson that I'll see him around and for sure see him on Sunday night when I come to grab the baby. I hurry off down the hallway, happy with our interaction. This is how divorced parenting should work - living separate lives while connected by the one thing you both love: your child, and letting her be the guiding force that leads you back to happiness.

When I pull up in the driveway that Jackson and I used to share on Sunday night, there's a car parked next to his that I don't recognize. I get out and narrow my eyes at it, and as I squint inside I can clearly see that it belongs to a female. I see lip gloss in the front cup holder and feminine sunglasses hanging from the visor.

Anger boils in my stomach knowing that he has another woman around our baby. Without asking me, no less. As I stomp up the front walk, I'm prepared to ream him a new one as soon as I walk in the door.

But as I use my key to push my way inside, shock takes over my rage. The woman I pictured inside the house that used to be mine was faceless and attractive. But this woman, this is one I know.

This is Maggie Pierce.

I was right. I knew I was right, during the hubbub of the fire at the hospital where I'd seen sparks between them. Because now, she's over at my ex-husband's, father of my daughter's house, wearing a nice blouse with a glass of wine in her hand.

"Oh, April," she says, her voice friendly. "Hey."

She sounds surprised and caught off-guard. I'm sure my face is boiling red, because it's started to get hot.

"I'm here to get Harriet," I say, forcing my voice to stay even.

I can't make eye contact with this woman. I can't make eye contact with her knowing she's screwing Jackson, the only man who I've ever given myself to. I can't help but think that he's giving part of me away by sleeping with her, like our memory is being rubbed away each time they find each other under the sheets.

How long will it take him to forget my body? The way I smell, the way I taste? I bristle as I come to the realization that those memories, for him, are probably already gone.

But I could never forget those things about him. His body is strong and capable, but I can reduce him to nothing with a simple touch in the right place. He smells like Tom Ford Private Blend, his favorite cologne that I bought for him even though I couldn't believe the price. He tastes like sweet cinnamon.

"Oh," Maggie says, standing up from the stool she'd been sitting on. "They're in the living room. I'll go get them."

I can't help but follow her. Not too close behind, but close enough. I peer into the living room and see Jackson lying on his side of the floor, head propped up with one hand as Harriet rests against his torso and plays with blocks. Of course, football is on in the background.

I linger in the entryway, feeling awkward. I want to step in and get territorial, but I have no right. That may be my baby, but that is not my husband. Not anymore.

"Harriet, your mama's here," Maggie says.

Jackson looks up from our child at the woman approaching. "April's here?" he asks.

Maggie nods, arms outstretched for the baby. Harriet looks up at her, makes eye contact and smiles while saying, "Mama."

My chest splinters. Maggie falters. Jackson sits up quickly, noticing me with a foot inside the space we used to share so intimately.

We all realize what just happened. It dawns on me that Maggie is spending enough time around my child for Harriet to mistake her for a mother. For me.

"Give me my daughter," I say, my voice betraying my imminent tears.

"April, she-" Maggie begins, but I don't let her finish.

"Just give me Harriet," I say, walking over with purpose and gripping the baby around the waist to situate her on my hip. "See you both at the hospital. Have a good night."

Jackson scrambles up from the floor and I can hear him catching up to me as I walk towards the front door.

"April, wait," he says. I don't turn around. I just work on putting Harriet's arms into her coat that she hates, so she starts to cry. "April. Stop, damn it. It's not what you think. That wasn't-"

"It's exactly what I think," I say, finally getting her arms in. By now, she's fully-fledged screaming. "And that's fine. You're a single man. Why shouldn't you date your step-sister?"

"April," he scolds.

"But what I'm not okay with is my daughter calling her 'mama,'" I say. "I won't let that happen again. Goodnight, Jackson."

"A, come on. Let me-"

"No," I say sternly, standing on the front stoop as the cold wind whips. I hold Harriet closer to shield her from it. "Goodnight, Jackson."

After I get Harriet buckled securely in her car seat, I get in the front and let out a loud breath. As I drive, I wipe tears off of my cheeks fervently and shake my head, willing myself to stop crying.

What am I emotional over? The fact that my ex-husband is moving on? The fact that he's moving on with his step-sister? Or the fact that my daughter called her 'mama?'

I come to the conclusion that it's probably all of those things, and that makes me cry harder.

Once I get us inside, I change Harriet into pajamas and start her bedtime routine. I dim the lights in her room, willing the calmness to wash over me, too. I read a nursery rhyme book, bounce her gently around the room, and finally sit down in the rocking chair to nurse her.

I lift up my soft pajama shirt and she nestles underneath, latching onto my breast quickly and naturally. Her small fingers fan out over my collarbone and I let my head rest against the back of the rocking chair, closing my eyes as I'm comforted by the soft weight of my daughter in my arms.

My daughter. I'm her mother. I gave birth to her, I was cut open on Meredith's dining room table for her. I know what makes her laugh and what scares her. I know which cries mean what and I'm the only one who can comfort her when she's fussy. I nurse her. I raise her. She's mine.

I stroke her back and she sighs through her nose, lulled by the closeness of my heartbeat and the rocking movement. With her eyes closed, she takes a tiny handful of my hair and keeps it in her squishy fist. I smile down at her. I created this life. Her calling Maggie 'mama' doesn't change that.

"I love you, little bug," I whisper, laying her down in her crib after she's finished. "Sleep tight."

The next morning when I drop Harriet off at the hospital daycare, she's as fussy as ever. Whenever I try to hand her off to her favorite worker, she screams and cries. When I pull her back to my chest, she whimpers and hides her face in my neck.

"Mama has to go to work, baby girl," I say, bouncing her impatiently. "I wish I could stay, too. But I'll see you tonight. Okay? Mama see you tonight."

I hand her off again, and she reaches her arms out straight and wails, " Mama !"

"I know, sweet girl," I say, backing away. "I know. Mama's so sorry. But I have to go."

I can't deny that hearing her scream 'mama' and knowing it was for me is a nice feeling. I don't necessarily like the circumstances, but it's still somewhat reassuring.

I practically bump into Jackson when I get to the surgical floor, tablet in hand. "Sorry," I mutter, edging around him to continue on my way.

"April, wait," he says, catching up with me. "Stop."

"I can't talk now," I say. "Busy day. I have a patient."

"They can wait two seconds," he says. "Give me two seconds."

"No," I say, stomach sinking as I meet his eyes. I miss those eyes, and it hurts knowing he doesn't miss mine. "I can't. Have a nice day."

I leave him in the dust, standing there in the middle of the hallway as I rush off to a patient that I don't have.

I successfully avoid Jackson for the rest of the day, even as he tries to get me alone. I refuse to be cornered and listen to his excuses about what happened last night, because it'll only make my pain worse.

If he leaves it alone, subsequently leaving me alone, I can get through this in one piece. I can come out on the other end unscathed, healthy even, better than before. Better than ever. But he seems hell-bent on keeping that from happening.

After I pick Harriet up from daycare, I'm busy talking to her as I walk out into the parking lot when I hear my name. I stop dead in my tracks, roll my eyes up towards the sky and let out a soft groan.

"Your daddy," I say, just to her. "Is the most stubborn man on the face of this planet." I spin around to see Jackson approaching, dressed in street clothes. "What do you want?" I ask.

He quickens his pace to a clip. "For you to give me a goddamn second," he says. I start walking before he can get to me, and I hear his footsteps speed up even more. "April, damn it! I'm just asking you to listen."

"I already know what you're going to say," I snap, walking to my car and opening the back door. I place Harriet in her car seat and buckle her in, speaking without turning to look at Jackson behind me. "And I can't hear it. I won't. So just… let it go, okay?"

"You don't know what I'm going to say," he says. "If you'd just give me a second, you could stop assuming. And I can stop chasing you."

I flip around, leaving Harriet's door open as I talk to him. "Okay, fine," I say. "What? What is so damn pressing that you couldn't just let it lie? I get it, Jackson. I got it long before you did. You have feelings for Maggie, I know. You don't have to tell me, that's not something I need to know. We're not married. You don't-"

"You think you know these things, but you don't!" he says. "You assumed. All damn day, you assumed. And you're wrong."

I narrow my eyes at him then turn away, hair flying. "She's spending too much time around Harriet," I say, picking up the heavy diaper bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

"Let me," he says, offering to take it.

"No," I say, defensively. "I got it. Harriet called her 'mama,' Jackson. I heard it. You heard it." I pause, feeling my expression soften. "And that-"

"That hurt you," he finishes. I stare at him, wide-eyed. "I know. It hurt me, too. And it made her feel weird."

I open my mouth, poised for a comeback, but I make no sound. I don't know how to respond.

"Maggie is Harriet's aunt," he says. "That's why she's around. I don't have feelings for her, A. I don't know why you're stuck on that. Been watching too much Game of Thrones or something, but I don't. She loves her niece. That's it."

I blink at him, bewildered. "It hurt you?" I ask. "To hear her call Maggie that?"

His words from before sit in my brain. Doesn't have feelings for her. Harriet's aunt. Doesn't have feelings for her.

He nods.

"Why?" I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. "Because I knew it hurt you," he explains. "And I hate that. I can't stand by and watch you get hurt. I was trying to find you all day to apologize, but you didn't let me."

I glance in the car at the baby, who's gurgling happy with her feet in her hands. I look back to her father, who I still have such deep feelings for.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"I am, too," he says. "If it helps, Harriet called the lamp 'mama' yesterday, too. Only thing I could think of is that it's skinny, like you."

I screw up my lips in a smirk and smack his arm.

We laugh, and his expression turns serious as it dies down. "I'm not ready to give up on us," he says. "I don't think I ever will be. You… I know we need time. Time, and space. But…" He sighs. "A part of me is always gonna see you as my wife, April. You're the mother of our beautiful baby. If I have lasting feelings for anyone, they're for you."

My breath hitches in my throat. I expect to feel more surprised, but instead I feel reassurance. I think because, deep down, I know our love isn't gone. It isn't faded. We just need to do some repairs before we can try again as a couple. Now, we need to fix ourselves individually.

"I never gave up on you, either," I say. "And I don't plan to. Ever."

He extends his arms and I fold into them, breathing in that scent I'm so familiar with.

He kisses the side of my head, soft and benign, then breathes in through his nose. "Lily of the valley," he says.

I smile against his chest. He does remember.