Pink Bib

A mother is born and so is guilt. Silvia had known the saying before she became a mother, but lately the feeling had grown like the bean sprout in cotton wool from that school experiment. Every day, another little drop of guilt fell onto her modest pad of cotton wool, and now, on her way into the city centre for the first time without her baby, she felt as though she were in a forest of bean shoots which, watered by her, had grown completely out of control.

Silvia must have looked worried, because an older woman on the bus smiled and asked:

‘Is this your first time out without your baby?’

Silvia looked at her in surprise. She was a scientist and did not normally believe in superstition, but since Olivia’s birth her life had turned upside down. Oddly enough, it made sense that the woman with all the necklaces sitting opposite her might be a clairvoyant.

‘How do you know?’

The woman gave a hearty laugh.

‘The way you’re holding that pink bib, and the look of someone going into battle, don’t leave much to the imagination.’

Instinctively, Silvia raised the bib to her face and caught Olivia’s gentle scent.

‘It is. First there was maternity leave; then the floods, and the university moved everything online. Everyone else went back more than three months ago, and I’ve finally run out of excuses.’

She meant the enormous flood that had struck southern Brazil. Living in the capital and working 120 kilometres away, she had seen roads closed for months, along with the region’s only international airport.

There is something you need to know about Silvia before you decide whether to root for her. Although she was distressed by the chaos around her and had volunteered from home — working on the social media accounts of an animal welfare charity, distributing donations and helping owners find their animals — part of her had welcomed the disruption, because it meant she could work from home and stay with her baby.

Before you hate her for it, know that she was fully aware of how wrong it was and cried in the bathroom every night, choking on guilt. When the rains tore the roof off the house, she was certain it was divine punishment. She did not even complain. She told everyone she could hardly complain about a mere roof when close friends had lost everything. The truth was that she felt guilty for feeling relief as she held her peacefully sleeping daughter while the world exploded outside. She was lost in these thoughts when she heard the woman repeat her question.

‘How old is she?’

‘One year,’ she answered quickly.

‘A year? And this is your first time away from her?’

‘She hardly eats anything apart from breast milk.’

‘At a year old?’

Though the remark was friendly, it went through Silvia like a fine needle. Every word echoed the invisible refrain that had been hammering in her head for months: You aren’t doing enough. The little pad of guilt-soaked cotton wool, once an innocent childhood experiment, had become a thick, sticky web, wrapping itself around her lungs with every breath. Olivia still depended on the breast and what might once have been celebrated as a sacred bond now weighed on Silvia like an accusation.

Advice was never in short supply. From the time Olivia was six months old, the world seemed to have joined an unsolicited crusade. Her friends from work posted colourful baby food on Instagram, with cheerful hashtags: #HealthyEatingFromTheCradle. A former classmate from her master’s degree — the one who had always competed for grants and publications — posted a slow-motion video of her seven-month-old devouring half an avocado. The caption read First try and he already loves it! #BLWSuccess #ProudMum. The little boy, his bib filthy, opened his mouth like a hungry fledgling. At a year old, Olivia refused even a miserable spoonful of pumpkin. All Silvia had to do was remember and life rubbed salt into the wound. She scarcely had time to feel sorry for herself before a little voice invaded her thoughts:

‘Tete!’

It was always the same. Olivia raised her eyebrows and pushed the spoon away with a force out of all proportion to her chubby little arms, as though apple purée were poison. Then she reached for Silvia, her small fingers opening and closing in a gesture somewhere between pleading and revolt. Tete — the sweetest and bitterest word of that silent war.

Meanwhile, Silvia’s mother kept up her daily calls. In my day... she would begin, the pressure cooker hissing in the background. Babies ate everything blended. Your brother ate a great big plateful at six months!

It was no use explaining that she had followed the BLW method to the letter, offering whole pieces of food. Everyone around her thought it was nonsense. On the worst days, the kitchen became a laboratory of defeats. Quinoa with mango, grated courgette, beetroot purée that stained her apron purple: she had tried it all. Her sister-in-law suggested ‘controlled hunger’ (Don’t breastfeed her and you’ll see how she eats!); her vegan friend swore the problem was the negative energy of processed food; even Olivia’s father, in his rare moments of involvement, ventured, Can’t you just put it in her mouth, love? — as if she were trying to decipher string theory rather than feed a child.

Even the paediatrician pronounced, with clinical detachment, ‘We need to encourage her more,’ punctuating the sentence with a dry click of her pen. Like a good scientist, Silvia wrote everything down, making lists and schedules. No method worked. Olivia spat, cried and arched her little body in protest. Every failure cut into Silvia’s image of herself: the methodical researcher, accustomed to results, defeated by a spoonful of pumpkin.

The loneliness, disguised as sisterhood, hurt. In online groups, stories of babies who adored broccoli went off like fireworks while she scrolled in silence, chewing on her shame. Even Marina, the lab colleague who had sworn she would never become ‘one of those annoying mums’, sent a porridge recipe with the message Worked for Pedro! Silvia deleted the conversation without replying. Motherhood seemed like a secret club: everyone knew the password except her.

That was why the woman on the bus had, without knowing it, touched the deepest wound. Silvia pretended not to care.

‘She’s seeing a nutrition specialist. We’re keeping an eye on it.’

‘Oh, poor little thing. What will you do?’ the woman asked. ‘Have you frozen any milk?’

Silvia took a deep breath, braced for more criticism.

‘No. Olivia won’t take any kind of teat. She won’t even drink my milk from a bottle.’

‘Ah!’ The woman looked at her with compassion. ‘Now I understand that look on your face. But it will be all right.’

Silvia was taken aback. She was so used to advice and criticism that she had not expected understanding.

‘My eldest had a terrible time giving up nappies. He simply stopped doing poos.’

Silvia smiled. There is something magical about sharing experiences when nobody claims to know best.

‘First he took his nappy off and decided he wouldn’t wear one any more. Then he hated the potty. There were months of suffering, pain and tears, but it passed. Everything passes. What stays is missing him now he doesn’t live at home.’

Without realising it, Silvia took the woman’s hand. They exchanged a knowing look.

‘Your baby will eat,’ the woman said. ‘She can hardly go off to university still breastfeeding.’

‘Thank you,’ Silvia said.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked a moment later, realising she still did not know the woman’s.

‘Leocadia,’ she answered at once. ‘And yours? Olivia’s mum?’

A shiver ran down Silvia’s spine.

‘My name’s Silvia,’ she said, still in shock. ‘But… I can’t believe your name is Leocadia.’

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly, perhaps to reassure her, but it had the opposite effect. There was something wrong with that smile. Silvia glanced at the door; the woman immediately noticed her discomfort and stood up.

‘I’ll be going. Good luck with the baby.’

She got off quickly and disappeared into the crowd, to Silvia’s relief.

Silvia held the bib against her heart, as if that scrap of cloth held everything she needed to defend herself against the world. Her daughter’s sweet scent was still there, mingled with a faint smell of milk. She breathed it in deeply, wanting to keep that smell inside her for the day.

The bus slowed; her stop was close. At the railway station, she boarded almost without noticing and took a seat by the window. She rested her head against the cold glass and closed her eyes for a moment. Anxiety tightened into a knot in her stomach. She knew her supervisor would be understanding: since the pregnancy, the woman had been patient, adjusting deadlines and allowing her to contribute remotely. Gratitude, though, did nothing to dispel the feeling that she was a fraud. As a doctoral scholarship holder and a senior member of the inclusion lab, she was expected to give it her full commitment. And what had she delivered? Reports written in haste, video meetings interrupted by whimpering, reading squeezed between feeds and sleepless nights.

The past two years had been a tangle of failed attempts to balance motherhood and her career. There, on the train, reality struck her.

Ten hours.

Ten hours away from Olivia.

Ten hours during which the baby might cry from hunger, refusing anything other than the breast. Ten hours during which somebody else would try to soothe her, rock her to sleep, distract her — and Silvia would not be there.

The conversation with Maria Conceição ought to have comforted her. She told herself that everything passed, that Olivia would not breastfeed for ever, that one day she would laugh at how worried she had been. None of it rang true. Her mind filled with scenes that tormented her: the baby restless and tearful, refusing food; the person caring for her trying and failing to distract her; the hours dragging until Silvia came home to a resentful look from her daughter.

She gripped the bib more tightly, as if she could protect Olivia from those thoughts.

The train went on. Houses and streets sped past, indifferent. In a few hours she would be in the lab, sitting opposite her supervisor, discussing articles and methodologies. She would have to pull herself together, act professionally, show that she was still the dedicated academic she had always been. Inside, she would count the minutes until she could go home. Because however much she loved science, nothing seemed harder than being a good mother and continuing to be Silvia at the same time.

A younger woman smiled and asked:

‘How old is your baby?’

Silvia looked at her hands: the bib had caught the woman’s attention.

‘One year.’

‘Is she your first?’

Silvia sighed. She knew more comments would follow. They always did.

Yes, Olivia was her first child, born two months before Silvia turned forty. Her age when she became pregnant was a recurring subject in other people’s looks, laden with veiled judgement or disguised concern. The truth was that Silvia had planned motherhood with the precision of an experiment. She had spent years building her career, achieving stability, strengthening her relationship with her husband and securing emotional maturity and resources. The plan was plain: to get pregnant at thirty-seven.

Then the world stopped.

The pandemic turned cities into apocalyptic scenes and brought overwhelming fear. How could they bring a child into a world of overburdened hospitals and an unknown virus? Silvia and her husband talked it through and decided to wait. For them, lockdown was not an invitation to ‘let it happen’, but a reason to put it off.

Instead of pregnancy tests came books about conscious parenting. Instead of antenatal appointments came discussions about sharing responsibilities, attachment parenting, emotional education and child development. They would not become parents on impulse.

Their meticulous preparation, however, did not shield them from judgement. It opened another front: the ‘crime’ of becoming a first-time mother at forty.

Society never seemed satisfied. Had she been younger, she would have lacked maturity. Had she had children without planning, she would have been called irresponsible. To many, getting pregnant late and doing so deliberately seemed a serious failing.

Questions came from all sides:

‘Aren’t you worried you won’t have the energy to keep up with a child?’

‘You’re brave! I had mine at twenty-five and was exhausted!’

‘And what if she wants a little brother or sister? Will you have the stamina?’

Then came the hints about fertility, as though she could not possibly have conceived naturally:

‘You had treatment, didn’t you? There are so many options these days!’

‘How lucky! I know so many women your age who’ve been trying for years…’

Day by day, Silvia learnt that motherhood was not just about raising a child. It also meant defending herself.

She saw couples who had had children during the pandemic justify their choices with romantic speeches. To her and her husband, they sounded flimsy. Lockdown had not made it harder to manage contraception. Having children was a decision that required planning, not a consequence of circumstances.

The irony was that the same world that criticised some people for acting on impulse condemned others for being cautious.

As the train moved, Silvia considered where all her guilt came from: her age, her decision to wait, Olivia’s difficulty with solid food, every decision that somehow seemed wrong in somebody’s eyes.

She looked at the bib against her chest like an amulet. Small, soft, steeped in her daughter’s sweet smell. A symbol of a phase slipping through her fingers.

‘I waited my whole life to be a mother. And now everyone seems to have something to say about it,’ she murmured to herself, unaware that her voice had carried over the noise of the train.

The loudspeaker announced the next stop, shaking her out of her thoughts. Beside her, a young woman with a tense face and a hand on her rounded belly was staring at Silvia, as if searching her for answers to her own fears.

Silvia recognised the look. Fear, anticipation, the attempt to prepare for something nobody can ever be ready for. She gave the woman a sympathetic smile and answered the question she had asked a few moments before, when Silvia had been far away in her thoughts.

‘Yes, she’s my first. We planned everything so carefully… only to face a pandemic, a flood, our car being swept away… and a baby who wants nothing but the breast.’

The young woman’s eyes widened, a hint of panic crossing her face.

Silvia laughed softly and shook her head.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t do anything differently. Any other choice would have taken me somewhere other than here, as my baby’s mother.’

The woman relaxed and a shy smile appeared. Her hand slid over her belly in a gesture of protection and affection.

‘Everything people tell you about loving a child… it doesn’t come close to what it’s really like, does it?’

What she said sounded right, exactly the sort of thing one expects to hear in a conversation like this, but Silvia noticed a strange slowness to her words. For a moment — perhaps a trick of the light, perhaps tiredness — she thought she saw a greenish shadow between the woman’s teeth. Silvia blinked quickly, unsure whether she had imagined it or whether it was the light, aware only that something about her darkened the words that ought to have comforted her.

The train stopped. The door opened. Silvia’s journey that day was still far from over. In the queue for the bus that would take her to the university — her third mode of transport before nine in the morning — she put the bib away. She did not want another emotional seesaw, wondering how Olivia was doing. Perhaps she would accept mashed banana with the supplement; sometimes she managed a few spoonfuls. Her mother had not sent any news yet. They must still be asleep.

On the old bus with its torn leather seats, Silvia thought how poor public transport was outside the capital. A small thing, weighed against safety, cleanliness and other advantages. She loved the capital — its bars, art circuit and cultural scene — but now the little ones and their safety came first. That was why she and her husband had pooled their savings, sold their car and taken on a second mortgage. They were moving to an upmarket gated community of houses, with squares, a zip line, a heated pool and neighbours who looked down their noses at people. Without their car, they drove her grandmother’s old 1992 Gol, which had sat in a garage for over a decade. The neighbours, in lovely houses worth over a million, turned to watch the little Gol crawling along. She was embarrassed, though she disliked admitting it. She feared that, in seeking a better life away from urban violence, she had condemned her daughter to the stigma of being ‘the poorest girl in the estate’. The one whose parents drove a 1992 Gol when she was born.

She took a deep breath and looked out of the window. In the reflection, she saw a woman about her age clutching a baby sock to her chest, and smiled. The woman caught her eye and smiled back. Not knowing how to explain, Silvia took the bib out of her bag and held it up.

‘How old’s yours?’ the woman asked.

‘A year and a month.’

‘Oh, she’s quite a big girl already!’

Silvia was amused. Until recently, she had called Olivia a newborn even though her mouth was full of teeth. It had taken her a while to let go of that idea, but ‘a big girl’ was too much for her bald little baby. To avoid commenting, she asked:

‘And yours?’

‘Three months. I’m settling him into nursery. I go back to work next month.’

Silvia could not keep the pity from her face. The woman shook her head.

‘I know. He’s so little… my heart feels as though it’s going to burst.’

Silvia felt sorry for this mother. She thought of the unfairness of the world and, unsure how to console her, said:

‘In Finland, mothers get up to two years’ leave.’

‘Two years on pay? Oh, if we had that here, women would have one baby after another.’

Silvia laughed. She did not think so; she believed in rights and public policy. She simply said:

‘I don’t think so. Being a mother is hard work.’

The other woman laughed, wiping away her tears now, and stood up.

‘Thanks for talking. This is my stop.’

Silvia travelled on in silence to her destination.

The university campus was beautiful: neatly tended gardens, flower-covered pergolas, colourful buildings and an area of shipping containers housing a sushi place, trendy clothes shops, a vintage shop and even a small gallery. A wonderful place to work, one she would have loved every day if it were not for Olivia. But as soon as she caught sight of the university, her breasts began to ache. Olivia must be hungry.

She hurried to the ergonomics and inclusion lab, where she could use her breast pump in peace. When she opened the door, she came face to face with her supervisor and the whole team.

Her supervisor was a woman in her late fifties: beautiful, modern, well dressed, brilliantly intelligent — the sort of woman Silvia hoped to become one day.

‘Look who’s come back to life,’ she said with a smile, hugging her.

She had no way of knowing that Silvia’s breast was rock hard with milk. Despite the pain, Silvia said nothing. She had disappointed her in so many ways since Olivia was born; she was not going to be ungrateful enough to complain about a hug.

‘So, did you remember the way here?’

‘It’s farther than I remembered. And prettier. Half those containers weren’t there last time.’

‘Wait until you see it at night. Everything’s lit up, strings of lights, live music almost every evening. Proper quality, too.’

‘It seems like a lovely place to work.’

‘It is. And it’s just waiting for you.’

Silvia caught the veiled criticism. There was no overt pressure, but comments dripped a million more drops onto the cotton wool of her guilt, making her feel like the worst doctoral scholarship holder in the world.

The day went well until lunch, when the familiar dilemma arose: race.

The table was full, her colleagues catching up. Someone asked:

‘Show us what Olivia looks like now!’

As she reached for her phone, Silvia already knew what was coming.

‘Oh my God! She’s beautiful!’

‘She is,’ Silvia replied.

‘She looks like a magazine cover! Have you thought of signing her up with a child modelling agency?’

‘I’m not really keen on that sort of thing.’

Then came the inevitable question:

‘But is she blonde with blue eyes? Who does she take after?’

Silvia was not white. She was parda, with features typical of many Brazilians, and since her pregnancy she had heard how ‘good’ it would be if her daughter took after her father. Imagine the bad luck if she got your eyes! People did not consider how uncomfortable it was to hear that her daughter would be unlucky to look like her — or like her family.

‘Wow, you were so lucky! She’s the spitting image of your husband! There’s absolutely nothing of you in her!’ said a new scholarship student.

Several others agreed, laughing and chewing, oblivious to the flood of racism. Silvia thought of interrupting them and ‘ruining’ lunch, but her supervisor had always treated her fairly, so she chose not to bring the elephant to the table.

The rest of the day passed without incident. She completed her tasks, delegated responsibilities to the undergraduate research students — who would spend the day streaming programmes if they were not given everything on a plate — and set out on the three-leg journey home: bus, train, bus.

It was already dark when the train stopped at a station that was not hers. Everyone began to get off. Silvia took out her earphones and asked what was happening. A nervous woman answered as she hurried past.

‘There’s a big protest in the centre. People are lying on the tracks at the central station.’

Before Olivia, Silvia never missed a protest. She felt out of place. She thanked the woman and took out her phone to find out where she was. The woman was already some distance away when Silvia called out:

‘Do you know what they’re protesting about?’

‘Bus fares, I think!’ the woman called back.

She was trying to get her bearings on her phone’s map when her husband rang.

‘Love.’

‘Alan, now’s not a good time.’

‘I know. The centre’s a war zone. I’ve been trying to call you for hours. I went down there to pick you up, but everything’s closed off; I couldn’t get anywhere near.’

‘You went to the centre when it’s a war zone? What about Olivia?’

‘She’s with your mother. She’s fine.’

‘Fine?’ Silvia sighed in relief. ‘Did she eat?’

She did not hear his answer. A car drove slowly past and its window rolled down.

‘Miss?’ A man’s voice from inside chilled her blood. ‘Put your phone away. It’s not very safe here.’

For the first time, she looked around. The place was frightening: rubbish in the street, homeless people warming themselves at flaming barrels, old houses, curious stares. She shoved her phone into her bag. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

A woman leaning against a doorway hung with a beaded curtain gave her a sly smile.

‘Lost, sweetheart? Want to come in?’

‘No, thank you,’ Silvia answered firmly. ‘My baby’s waiting for me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ the woman said, laughing.

A limping man with blood on his leg was walking towards her. No one seemed to notice how absurd the scene was. How could a place like this exist in her city without anyone talking about it?

Not knowing which way to go, she spotted an older woman who looked religious, walking quickly and avoiding people’s eyes. She seemed to know the way, and that was enough. Silvia picked up her pace. The woman noticed her coming, took fright and broke into a run at an astonishing speed for her age.

‘Wait, madam!’ Silvia shouted. ‘I just want to get back to my baby! I’m not going to rob you!’

At the word ‘rob’, the old woman found fresh strength and ran faster. Silvia did not slow down. The woman ran as far as a church door and stopped there, clutching the doorframe. She did not go in. She stood quite still with her back to Silvia.

Silvia slowed. She was about to say something when the old woman turned her face over her shoulder without moving her body.

The turn was too slow. Too wrong.

The streetlight revealed tiny dark specks clinging to her skin. One of them moved — slid down and fell onto the step with an almost dry little sound.

Silvia went cold.

The old woman smiled, showing teeth stained a shade of green Silvia had already seen that day.

‘You found me.’

‘But I didn’t mean to,’ Silvia said firmly. ‘I’m not lost any more. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.’

‘You’re not lost any more?’ The old woman cackled. ‘I was the one who showed you the way.’

‘All right, thank you, but I’m going now.’

‘Not yet,’ she said with conviction. ‘First I want to give you a present.’

Of course Silvia thought of refusing. Nothing in the world could have persuaded her to accept anything from that thing. But that was before it told her what it was offering.

‘I can help with your daughter.’

Silvia closed her eyes. It was her Achilles’ heel. She would accept nothing. Except that. The old woman gave a triumphant smile. She knew it.

‘The key to all this suffering is something so simple that once I tell you, it will make perfect sense. Do you want to hear it?’

Tears filled Silvia’s eyes and she merely nodded.

‘Well, then. The great secret is that no child is perfect. Not a single one. Your baby won’t eat, your friend’s took ages to talk, and a former neighbour of yours has a two-year-old boy who still hasn’t taken a step. Did you know that?’

Silvia knew nothing about her former neighbours, so she shook her head.

‘But I bet your daughter stands out in other ways, apart from not eating, doesn’t she?’

‘She does,’ Silvia said quickly. ‘She said cat and coffee at nine months, and she’s three months ahead on every developmental milestone!’

The old woman laughed.

‘Except eating.’

‘Yes.’

‘So here’s the secret, and I can help you. If you stop wasting time focusing on what your daughter can’t do and spend more time telling everyone what she can do, I promise that anguish will go away. Didn’t you make a post about cat and coffee? I bet practically all your friends would be jealous.’

‘I don’t put my daughter on social media.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the old woman said, disappointed. ‘But you needn’t show her face. You could use a blurred photograph with her in the background. Just talk about how clever and special she is. You like writing chronicles, don’t you?’

‘I don’t believe that would make my daughter start eating.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t, but she’ll eat eventually, my dear. Or are you really afraid she’ll go off to university still breastfeeding? But I promise you would feel lighter, less guilty.’

She held out her hand.

‘That is my promise.’

Silvia did not need to ask. She understood what the thing wanted. Somehow it fed on envy and wanted to use her to get it.

‘I don’t need to shake your hand to decide whether I’ll talk about how special my daughter is.’

‘But you do if you want to guarantee my gift. Every time you make another mother feel envious, I’ll automatically pass on a share of the satisfaction to you. I promise it will ease your troubles in ways you can’t imagine.’

Silvia looked at the outstretched hand. The offer was tempting, but using her baby to make other women suffer seemed monstrous. So she ran, far away from there, without looking back.

Some time has passed since then and, although Silvia has never regretted refusing the bargain, whenever she posts anything about her daughter, she wonders whether she is somehow feeding that monster with its slimy teeth.