When Warmth Rose

I, May Stewart, had just welcomed a baby girl into the world.

Everyone showered me with congratulations, but they had no idea what I was going through. I was in agony.

My breasts were painfully congested, the milk refusing to flow properly.

Each nursing session left me trembling with pain, sometimes drawing blood.

When my best friend found out, she hooked me up with a postpartum care specialist.

"Very skilled," she assured me, "with a steady hand and loads of experience."

She texted me his details, and I did not waste a second before booking a home visit.

I was desperate; the throbbing pain nearly drove me insane.

Two days later, the postpartum care specialist was due to arrive.

I had set the appointment for 3 p.m., and right on the dot, the doorbell chimed.

Opening the door, I was taken aback: the postpartum care specialist was a guy.

He looked to be in his thirties, clean-cut and easy on the eyes, dressed in crisp white linen, way younger than I had pictured.

A wave of doubt hit me. Could this young man, male no less, really be skilled at this?

It was not just any area we were talking about; it was personal. Having a stranger step into my space was deeply unsettling.

He must have caught the worry in my eyes because he quickly reassured me, "No need to stress. I'm fully trained and have been doing this for years. My only job is to ease your pain and get you feeling comfy again.

"I understand if you're uneasy about this, but just so you know, the deposit's non-refundable," he added.

Hearing that, I clenched my jaw and let him in.

Having a postpartum care specialist come to my house had not exactly been cheap, and I was not about to kiss that deposit goodbye.

If I had not been feeling so crummy, and if all those so-called experts had not been a total bust, I never would have thought to call him.

My best friend was the one who raved about him, saying his skills were 'out of this world'. She would not have recommended him to me if there had been anything questionable.

Thinking about that, I could feel the knots in my stomach start to loosen up.

Guess I have been extra careful since the kiddo came along. Hubby's always teasing me about turning into a worrywart.

The guy's name was Howard Jones. Right when he walked in, he slipped on some disposable shoe covers as if it were second nature.

He then glanced my way and asked, "Where would you like to start the session, ma'am?"

He left the question hanging, but I got the gist.

Even though I had psyched myself up to trust the guy, I was still a bundle of nerves.

My husband was not home yet. It was just me and the little one, who was snoozing in the bedroom.

I wavered between the bedroom and the living room but ended up choosing the living room.

Howard did not give off a creep vibe, but why risk it?

If I got even a whiff of trouble, I would bolt out the door and scream for help.

Howard just nodded when I told him, no fuss, no muss.

He laid out a sterile mat on the couch and wiped his hands like he was about to perform surgery.

"Please lie down, ma'am," he said, all business.

I let out a long breath, kicked off my shoes, and carefully laid back on the mat.