Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 35

One week into cohabitation, and I've become a ghost in my own life.

I notice it gradually, the way you notice weight gain—not all at once but in small moments that accumulate. The grocery list on the fridge isn't mine anymore. It's Mateo's handwriting, Mateo's preferences, Mateo's organizational system that makes no sense but somehow works.

The family calendar is color-coded in Axel's precise hand. Blue for his schedule, green for Mateo's, purple for mine. Doctor appointments, practice times, meal prep rotations—all planned without my input, presented as helpful instead of what it is.

A takeover.

"I reorganized the pantry," Axel announces Tuesday morning, like this is good news. "Alphabetized. It's more efficient."

I stare at the shelves where nothing is where I put it. Where I've been putting it for two years. "I had a system."

"You had chaos. Now you have organization."

"I liked my chaos."

He doesn't hear me. Already moving on to the next item on his mental checklist, optimizing our lives one alphabetized spice rack at a time.

Thursday, Mateo brings home diapers. The wrong brand. The brand Aria hates, the one that gives her a rash, the one I specifically never buy.

"They were on sale," he says when I point this out.

"She's allergic."

"She's not allergic, she just doesn't prefer—"

"She gets a rash. That's an allergy. That's why I buy the other kind."

"Okay, okay." He holds up his hands. "I'll return them."

But he doesn't understand why I'm upset. It's just diapers. Just a small thing. Just one more decision made without me, about my children, in my house that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

Saturday morning, I opened the fridge to find the baby food had changed.

Not just brands. The entire approach. Glass jars replaced with those squeeze pouches I hate, the organic stuff I carefully researched swapped for whatever was convenient. A note in Axel's handwriting: Restocked. More efficient packaging.

Something inside me snaps.

"Who changed the baby food?"

Axel looks up from his laptop. "I did. The pouches are easier for daycare, and the nutritional content is comparable—"

"Did you ask me?"

"I didn't think I needed to ask about baby food."

"It's not about the baby food!" My voice comes out louder than intended. Aria startles in her high chair. "It's about the fact that I haven't made a single decision in this house for seven days. You handle security. You handle schedules. Mateo handles groceries. And I just exist here like a tenant in my own life."

Silence. Both of them, staring at me. Mateo frozen mid-bite of his cereal.

"I need air," I say, grabbing my keys. "Don't follow me."

The door slams behind me before either can respond.

Kerry Park is empty this early. Just me and the Seattle skyline, the water stretching out gray and endless, the city I chose when I needed to disappear.

I used to come here to think. Before them. Before the babies were born and every moment became scheduled and structured and suffocating with love.

That's the worst part. They're not doing it to hurt me. They're doing it because they care, because they want to help, because Axel shows love through control and Mateo shows love through action and neither of them realizes they're erasing me in the process.

My phone buzzes. Naomi.

"What happened?" No hello. She always knows.

"How do you do that?"

"Sister telepathy. Also, Mateo texted me in a panic. What happened?"

I lean against the railing, watching a ferry crawl across the water. "I don't know how to do this. How to be part of something instead of the whole thing."

"Explain."

So I do. The pantry. The calendar. The diapers. The baby food that was the final straw. How I spent two years building a life where I was in control—had to be in control—and now I'm supposed to just... share that? Let other people make decisions about my kids, my home, my existence?

"It sounds suffocating," Naomi says.

"It sounds ungrateful. They're trying to help."

"It can be both." A pause. "Selene, you built independence because you had to. Not because you wanted to. You were alone and pregnant and terrified, so you became everything because there wasn't another option. But that doesn't mean you have to stay that way."

"What if I don't know how to be anything else?"

"Then you learn. You ask for what you need instead of expecting them to guess. You let them help with the things that don't matter so you have energy for the things that do." Her voice softens. "You're allowed to need people. That's not a weakness. That's just being human."

The ferry disappears around the point. The city keeps moving, indifferent to my crisis.

"When did you get so wise?" I ask.

"I've always been wise. You were just too busy being perfect to notice."

I laugh despite everything. "I should go back."

"You should. They're worried. And you should tell them what you told me—that you don't know how to share space without losing yourself. That's important information. They can't fix what they don't understand."

"I hate when you're right."

"Get used to it. Love you."

"Love you too."

The drive home takes longer than necessary. I'm not avoiding—I'm preparing. Figuring out words for feelings I've never had to explain before.

When I walk through the door, they're both in the living room. Waiting. Axel on the couch with rigid posture, Mateo pacing by the window. They turn toward me simultaneously, identical expressions of relief and worry.

"I'm sorry," Axel says immediately. "I didn't realize—"

"I should have asked about the diapers," Mateo adds. "And the groceries. And—basically everything. Lo siento."

"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Let me talk."

They fall silent. Waiting.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, moving to sit on the coffee table facing them. "Look, for two years, I was everything. Every decision, every plan, every middle-of-the-night emergency—me. And I know that's not healthy. I know I should want help. But when you help without asking, it feels like you're saying I wasn't doing it right. Like my way doesn't matter now that there's an us."

Mateo's face crumples. "That's not—we didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't mean it. But that's how it feels." I take a breath. "I need to be part of the decisions. Not informed after. Not presented with solutions. Actually part of the process. Even the small stuff. Especially the small stuff."

Axel nods slowly. "The small stuff is where you feel in control."

"The small stuff is where I feel like me."

They exchange a look. That silent communication they've developed, the one that used to make me feel excluded and now just makes me feel seen.

"We can do that," Axel says finally. "Ask first. Discuss instead of decide."

"Even about baby food?" Mateo asks with a tentative smile.

"Especially about baby food." I reach for both their hands. "I want this to work. I want us. But I can't disappear into us. I have to still be me."

"You're the most visible person I know," Mateo says softly. "Even when you're trying to hide."

Axel squeezes my fingers. "We'll do better. Tell us when we're not."

It's not a perfect solution. There will be more moments, more adjustments, more learning how to be three instead of one.

But when Mateo pulls me onto the couch between them, and Axel's hand finds its usual place on my knee, I feel something settle in my chest.

Not invisible. Not erased.

Just figuring it out, like everyone else.