CLEO
“Hey baby, sshhh…” Cleo nuzzled Amanda’s soft shoulders, inhaling the warm scent of her daughter’s onesie. Car rides weren’t Mandy’s favourite unless Axel was in the backseat with her, kicking his legs and offering a running commentary about the clouds or trucks they passed.
After dropping Axel off at daycare, Mandy had started screeching the moment the car door clicked shut. Her little face had turned red and tight, her cries piercing through the car like static.
When Cleo was a first-time mum, it had taken her six full months before she could leave the house alone with Axel. Jacob had been the designated driver, while she rode in the backseat, entertaining Axel so he wouldn’t cry. The few times she ventured out solo, she would park the car the moment he squealed, climb into the backseat to shush him, feed him, cuddle him, whatever it took, before continuing. It had been exhausting.
By the time she had Mandy, they had settled into a parenting routine — two kids, two cars. One car seat for Axel, one for Amanda. Jacob usually handled drop-offs, but on days Cleo had a Mum group, she took both kids.
Now with Mandy, she didn’t bother stopping to soothe her; she did other things instead: singing off-key, narrating the drive in a soothing voice, turning up the music (sometimes to drown out the cries), or just… sitting in silence, letting it roll over her.
She hoisted the diaper bag over her shoulder, the canvas brushing her cheek, and tucked Mandy into her stroller. The car gave a chirp as she locked it.
She was early by design. Nobody came to these Mum groups early; they all had children, for God’s sake. That’s why it was perfect.
Tara and Esther would come later; they always came later, which meant Cleo could count on getting her supplies before they arrived.
The three of them were the only Black women in this particular group, which was enough reason to band together. Cleo had been the first; she started coming when Mandy was two months old and had made friendly, casual ties with the regulars. Growing up in Canada meant that she’d come to learn the nuance of their culture, the art of small talk (gross!), and her Canadian accent made them relax enough to let her in.
Tara showed up when Mandy was four months, by which time Cleo had established a comfortable rapport with a few of the mums. It had been easy to bring Tara in without losing her place.
Tara was great. Strong. Brave, even. Cleo admired her. It was hard enough raising two kids of different ages, but twins? No, ma’am. She would’ve broken.
She’d first noticed Tara struggling with the double stroller at the entrance, her face folded into confusion or maybe near-tears. Cleo had sidled up to her to ask if she needed help.
“No, I…this…um…” Tara stammered, then burst into tears.
Cleo didn’t hesitate. She wrapped an arm around her shoulder. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know each other yet; Cleo knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed.
“I’m sorry,” Tara sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just a mess.”
“Look around you, honey, we are all a mess,” Cleo said gently.
Tara smiled, watery but real. “It’s my first time out with them on my own. So embarrassing.”
“Your twins are gorgeous. How old are they?”
Tara’s face lit up immediately, the tears fast receding. “Two and a half months. How about yours?”
“This is Mandy. She’s four months.”
“She’s beautiful,” Tara said. And Cleo knew she meant it.
Mandy was beautiful. Unlike Axel, who had inherited Jacob’s curly red hair and freckled nose, Mandy favoured Cleo; inky black curls, deep tan skin, eyes that always looked like they were dreaming.
“So…how does this work?” Tara asked. “I looked online, and it was pretty vague. What do you guys do?”
Cleo laughed, “This is what we do. It’s flexible. Mums hang out, kids play. There’s no schedule.”
It wasn’t until the second time Tara came that they swapped names and numbers.
“Omotara, but people call me Tara.”
“Cleopatra, but people call me Cleo.”
“Cleopatra. That’s such a beautiful name. Where are you from?”
Cleo laughed, “Believe it or not, Nigeria.”
“You? You’re Nigerian? But you sound…and your daughter is…”
“My parents moved here when I was five, so my Nigerianness is now okrika.”
“At least you still know what okrika means,” Tara said.
They both laughed.
“And my husband is white. Well, South African, hence Mandy’s skin.”
That was the beginning of their friendship.
So yes, Cleo liked Tara even if she was just a little sensitive. Take the Starbucks incident, for example, Cleo wouldn’t have taken it so seriously. She’d probably have smiled sweetly at the woman and said, Yes, I’m breastfeeding (she was not), could you make the coffee extra strong?
And then she’d sit there, sipping her drink slowly, making bold, deliberate eye contact the whole time. But then again, she was a troublemaker according to Jacob.
But Tara had been so upset, she threw the coffee away (what a waste of good money, and coffee!)
Still, Cleo was not judging. She had learned that motherhood hit women in different ways, especially the first time around.
**
“Hey,” Cleo said.
She parked her stroller in the back of the hall, the rubber wheels sliding across the smooth tiles. Only one other stroller sat nearby, its canopy half-zipped, like it had been waiting for her.
“Hey,” the other mum replied, not smiling.
“All good?” Cleo unbuckled Mandy, who was beginning to stretch and squirm like a cat just waking up.
“Yes, you?”
“Yes. Ready when you are.”
Cleo leaned into the diaper bag, the familiar rustle of wipes and fabric enveloping her. She slipped the folded fifty from the side pocket, already slightly warm from where it had been pressed between a stack of diapers.
She pressed it into the woman’s hand with practiced ease. Their fingers brushed; dry skin, a chipped nail, the faintest tremble, maybe hers.
The other mum passed her a small, tissue-wrapped package; no words, no eye contact, and Cleo slid it straight into the hidden pocket behind the bag, without looking at it.