Word Count: 1030

Things were different this time around—a thought that crossed Marissa's mind often, but one she did not care to consider too closely lest the resulting observations cause her guilt to strengthen. Yet it remained a difficult notion to ignore when she found herself faced with reminders on a daily basis.

It had been nineteen years since the last time she'd been faced with the prospect of caring for a baby. One would think her memories of the practice might have faded since then—and some of them had; she couldn't pretend as if her instincts were always so sharp—but there were many that still stood out quite starkly, though they had less to do with rocking and feeding and general childcare and more to do with personality and temperament. In that respect, time had only encouraged the memories to sink their roots in deeper.

Lilah was not like Paris.

Perhaps that should have been obvious, given that they were different babies born at different times, nearly twenty years apart, with different fathers and different circumstances surrounding their lives. She hadn't decided to have another child intending for the second one to be an exact replica of the first—that would be foolish.

But Marissa would admit that she had had a certain set of expectations based upon her previous experiences, and she was initially a bit unsettled that the months since Lilah's birth did not transpire at all as she thought (and feared) they would.

If Paris had been at all like Lilah, Marissa expected a lot of things would have been different.

She remembered a smaller baby, a bit slow to develop, but loud enough to make up for it. When Paris cried, the noise carried far, and Paris had cried over everything—hungry, wet, dirty, tired, hot, cold, or otherwise uncomfortable, someone somewhere had heard about it. Marissa remembered tantrums in the grocery store, and tears and wailing at home for no reason she had been able to discern. And Paris had gotten no quieter with age—first she babbled nonsensically, then she talked and chattered in a lilting, sing-song voice some people might have found grating.

Paris smiled early but crawled late; she had no trouble rolling over or sitting up, but took her time learning how to walk. She said her first word long before Marissa expected her to—a shrill, forceful “NO!”—and took to bouncing and dancing around the house soon after she finally found her feet, but getting her to eat solid foods had been a chore. Paris liked the fruits and vegetables more than the meat. The doctors were concerned when Paris had a hard time putting on weight; she was always small, always light—a pale, skinny, tiny little thing with a high voice and big, wide eyes ready to leak crocodile tears at a moment's notice.

Of all the things to change as Paris grew, her preferences for food and her worryingly low weight were not one of them.

The talking, too, come to think of it.

Lilah was much different. Marissa couldn't be sure it if had anything to do with her own dealings with Lilah or if it was the presence of Cal's genes instead of Henry's this time around. All babies were different, of course, and she knew that well, but guilt had a way of making one worry even if or when the fault could not be laid upon them. With guilt came ridiculous assumptions and self-deprecating thoughts.

Somewhere along the line, she must have messed up with one of them.

Compared to Paris, Lilah was a quiet baby. She cried only when she was hungry, and sometimes when she was tired or uncomfortable, but she was quick to soothe and didn't fuss as much as Paris had. Lilah smiled a little later, but rolled and sat and crawled right on time, and at eleven months she was using the furniture to creep confidently around the house, and took unassisted steps on a daily basis. She hadn't said her first word yet, but the fact that she was a hearty eater more than made up for it—chubby to Paris's tiny.

As far as Marissa could tell—and as the doctor's always assured her—Lilah was a happy, healthy baby. Average, unsurprising in a way Paris definitely hadn't been.

After being kept on her toes by Paris, Marrisa figured that was a good thing. Lilah was easy. Paris had been... not abnormal... not difficult, per se, but... challenging...

Yes, challenging. And Marissa could not blame it entirely upon the fact that she'd been perhaps too young when Paris had been born.

Paris had been clingy. Paris had needed constant attention.

And that was it, Marissa thought. That was the main difference between them.

Paris had needed her.

Lilah did, too, of course, but not nearly to the same extent.

So it was easy to drop Lilah off at day-care, easy to go to work and attend meetings all day without worrying about the baby overmuch, easy to let someone else pick Lilah up in the afternoons and feed her dinner and settle her down for bed. She didn't need to sing Lilah songs or read Lilah stories the way she had for Paris, because Lilah responded just as well to Cal's voice, and Cal was more than willing to take baby-duty during Marissa's frequent absences and progressively later nights. It was easy to let other people hold Lilah, easy to sit back and watch other people play with her, because Lilah didn't cry for Marissa as much, didn't fuss for Mommy and make grabby hands every time Marissa walked into the room.

Lilah slept through the night. She had a healthy appetite and an even temper.

Lilah was content.

Paris had never been.

Upon that realization the guilt shifted, and Marissa wondered if it wasn't that she felt differently for her second child that was the problem, but that she'd never quite resolved her feelings for her first.

Even years later, she still couldn't come to terms with the fact that, despite the efforts she'd made in youth, she'd failed to bring her first child the happiness and contentment that came so naturally to her second.