As a mother of eight months—sixteen if you count time inside the womb when I grew to love our firstborn—I was far from my sisters and my mother, and my little girl was already experiencing her second or third ear infection. We had driven her in the car, and I sat for hours in a steaming bathroom, the shower running full blast, so I could nurse her. I don’t know when I had slept last. I couldn’t be angry with her could I? She was in pain and she didn’t understand.