Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 143

Sophie’s POV

The shift happens so gradually I almost miss it.

Day by day, small moments accumulate. Amelia's eyes track me when I move across the room now, following my path with focused attention instead of vague infant wandering.

When she's fussy with Eleanor or even Bellamy, she settles faster in my arms. Her body molds to mine with recognition—’you, you're mine, I know you.’

I start interpreting her cries without conscious thought. The hungry cry versus the tired cry versus the "something's wrong" cry. My body responds before my brain catches up, already moving to feed or soothe or check her diaper based on sounds I've somehow learned to decode.

The bond is forming. Not the dramatic rush everyone promised—no thunderbolt moment where suddenly I was transformed into earth mother. It's gentler than that. Quieter.

A slow recognition building in my chest that this tiny person is mine. That I would destroy anyone who threatened her. That the exhaustion and fear and constant giving are worth it because she exists.

Because she's Amelia. My daughter.

The breakthrough happens on a Wednesday afternoon while I'm folding laundry. Eleanor holds Amelia on the couch, bouncing her gently while the baby makes those small cooing sounds that mean she's content. I'm matching tiny socks—an endless, mindless task that's become meditation.

Amelia starts fussing. Not crying, just vocalizing discontent.

Eleanor adjusts her hold, tries the angle that usually works. "Shh, sweet girl. What's wrong?"

The fussing escalates slightly. Amelia's face scrunches, preparing to actually cry.

Then her gaze finds me across the room. Locks onto my face with laser focus. Her small arms reach out—not random flailing, but deliberate reaching. Toward me. Specifically, unmistakably, toward her mother.

"Oh." Eleanor's voice carries wonder. "Sophie, she wants you."

I drop the laundry. Cross the room in three steps, hands already reaching for my daughter.

The moment I lift Amelia from Eleanor's arms, she settles. Just stops fussing completely. Curls into my chest with total trust, tiny fist gripping my shirt, face burrowing against me like I'm home.

She chose me, reached for me. Wanted me over everyone else.

The emotion hits like a tidal wave. Relief so overwhelming I can't breathe. Joy that floods my chest and spills over into tears streaming down my face.

"I'm not broken," I whisper, pressing my face against Amelia's soft hair. "I'm not broken after all."

Eleanor's hand finds my shoulder, squeezes gently. "Of course you're not broken, sweetheart. You never were."

But I was terrified I might be. Terrified that maternal love was something my genetics or psychology or whatever fundamental flaw I carry just couldn't produce. That I'd look at my daughter forever with obligation instead of devotion.

The love is here, real, growing stronger every day. Not the instant explosion everyone described, but something deeper—built slowly, earned through sleepless nights and endless giving, constructed from moments just like this.

I love her. God, I love her so much it physically hurts.

My first instinct is to share this with Adrian. To bring him into this breakthrough moment. To show him that we're going to be okay, that I'm becoming the mother Amelia needs, that maybe there's hope for us after all.

I carry Amelia down the hallway to Adrian's study. The door is closed—always closed lately. I knock.

"Yes?" His voice comes through muffled.

"Adrian, something just happened. Can I…"

"I'm busy right now." Papers rustling, keyboard clicking. "Can it wait?"

My joy deflates like a punctured balloon. "Yeah. It can wait."

"Thanks."

I stand in the hallway for a moment, Amelia warm and solid against my chest, staring at my boyfriend's closed door.

Then I turn away.

Bellamy is in the living room checking security feeds on his laptop. He glances up when I approach, and something in my expression makes him immediately close the computer.

"Everything okay?"

"She reached for me." The words tumble out, accompanied by a smile I can't suppress. "Amelia. She was with Eleanor and she looked right at me and reached for me. Chose me over everyone else."

Bellamy's face lights up—genuinely, not the polite acknowledgment I'd get from Adrian. "That's huge! That's a major milestone."

"Is it?" I sink onto the couch beside him, still cradling Amelia. "I mean, I know it is for me emotionally, but…"

"It's developmentally significant." Bellamy leans closer to look at Amelia, who's now sleeping peacefully against my chest. "Recognition and preference for primary caregiver. Shows secure attachment forming."

"How do you know that?"

"Read a lot when Noah was born. Terrified I'd screw him up since his mom wasn't there." He smiles softly. "Can I see if she'll do it again?"

"She's asleep now, but…"

"Later then." Bellamy settles back, and I catch the genuine warmth in his expression. "This is worth celebrating. First real 'I want my mom' moment."

The phrase makes my chest tight. "Yes. Yes, she wanted her mom. She wanted me."

"Of course she did." Bellamy's voice carries certainty Adrian never manages. "You're her person. She knows that now."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Amelia sleeps on, oblivious to the significance of what just happened.

"Noah did something similar around four months. I was at work, the nanny had him."

Bellamy says quietly.

"He started crying and wouldn't stop—she tried everything. Finally called me in a panic. The moment I walked through the door, he stopped. Reached for me exactly like Amelia just did with you."

"What did that feel like?"

"Like maybe I wasn't completely failing at being his father." Bellamy's smile is self-deprecating. "Like maybe he actually knew I was his dad and wanted me specifically. Best feeling in the world."

"Yeah." I look down at Amelia's sleeping face. "That's exactly it."

As we talk, the realization crystallizes with devastating clarity:

Bellamy was there for Amelia's first real smile. Not the gas-induced grimaces, but the actual responsive smile at three weeks when I made a funny face. Adrian was in his study on a conference call.

Bellamy was there the first night she slept four hours straight. We celebrated quietly in the kitchen at dawn, both of us exhausted but thrilled. Adrian slept through it.

Bellamy was here today when she reached for me. Adrian was behind a closed door, too busy to share the moment.

Every milestone. Every breakthrough. Every small victory in this impossible journey of becoming a mother—Bellamy has witnessed them all while Adrian has locked himself away.

My boyfriend is missing his daughter's life. Not because he's working somewhere else, not because he's unavoidably absent. He's here. In the next room. Just choosing work or solitude over witnessing Amelia's development.

And Bellamy keeps showing up. Keeps being present. Keeps filling the space Adrian leaves empty with his deliberate absence.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For being here for this."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did." I meet his eyes. "You were present, you celebrated with me. You made it feel important instead of trivial."

Something shifts in Bellamy's expression—vulnerability flickering across his features before he locks it away. "It is important. Don't let anyone make you think it's not."

The unspoken reference to Adrian hangs between us.

We both know who he means. Both know who's making me doubt the significance of every small victory with my daughter.

Amelia stirs against my chest, makes a small sound, then settles back into sleep.

I hold her tighter. This tiny person who chose me, who reaches for me. Who's teaching me how to love in ways I didn't know I was capable of.

She deserves better than parents who can barely be in the same room. Better than a father who treats her milestones as interruptions. Better than the slowly crumbling disaster our family has become.

But I don't know how to give her better when I'm barely holding myself together.

So I just sit with Bellamy in the quiet apartment, holding my daughter, and let myself feel grateful that at least one person is witnessing this journey with me.

Even if it's not the person it should be.