CHAPTER ONE

of The Inconvenient Unraveling of Gemma Sinclair

Gemma Sinclair jerked awake, her eyes snapping open to see the crack on the ceiling straight above the bed. Her heart was beating fast. She lay still, working to find the details of the dream she was just having. There was a tightness in her chest,

but she couldn’t remember the cause. She rolled over, opened her eyes, and grabbed instinctively for her phone, unplugging

it from the charger and bringing it close to her face. Without her glasses on or her contacts in, she had to close her right eye

to focus as she swiped her thumb across the screen. The phone illuminated with an image of her son holding his newborn brother in the hospital—a picture taken four days earlier. The time was 5:18 a.m. She’d only been asleep for an hour. Without thought she opened Instagram, her eyes suddenly flooded with images and icons and text, her thumb mindlessly rubbing the phone’s screen in upward strokes. She let out a disgruntled sigh when she scrolled over a friend’s anniversary post. “Thank you for putting up with me!” the caption read. Have some self-worth, Gemma thought. She closed the app and carelessly tossed her phone on the bed as Anthony stepped slowly into the room.

“Hey there, Mama,” he said softly from the side of the bed. He handed her a cup of steaming coffee. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, awkwardly taking her first sip, still horizontal. “How was your shift?”

“Good. He’s such a sweet baby.”

“After nineteen hours of labor, he’d better be.”

Anthony smiled as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her. “Are you feeling up for today?”

Gemma looked at him with her eyebrows knitted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you had a baby four days ago?”

She smirked. “Oh, that.”

Anthony looked at her for a beat, his concern showing. “This just feels like a lot for the state you’re in.”

“What state is that? Insanity?”

He winked. “You said it, not me.”

She leaned her head back on the pillow, her hand carefully balancing the coffee mug beside her on the bed. “The timing isn’t great. I’ll give you that. But I’m looking forward to it.”

“You sure?”

“Totally.”

Even with her eyes closed, Gemma could feel Anthony studying her face. “I’ll be down in just a minute,” she said lightly.

“Take your time,” he said, rising from the bed and walking toward the hall.

As she watched him close the door, Gemma had a gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. As to be expected with postpartum, she thought. The subtle sadness. The erratic emotions. The

overwhelming numbness. Well, not overwhelming numbness; she could certainly feel every inch of her vagina. The nine stitches—which her doctor had told her wasn’t that bad given the size of Calvin’s head—were throbbing, and the rocket-sized maxi pad shoved into her hospital-issue mesh panties was clearly full. She shifted her body slightly to put the coffee

mug on the nightstand. She gripped the edge of the mattress, tucked her body, rolled off the bed, hunched over, and shuffled to the bathroom, knees together. She made it to the toilet with just a trickle running down her leg. Working fast, she slid down the mesh underwear,

sopped up the blood, and disposed of the pad. Do I medicate the stitches now, or after the shower? she wondered. Deciding to wait, she folded toilet paper on her palm in layers and

placed it between her legs to catch any new blood while she prepared fresh underwear with a clean pad. Shuffling so as not to disturb the toilet paper lasagna between her thighs, she

laid the padded contraption on the sink and reached up into the medicine cabinet for the numbing spray and ointment.

Setting those beside the underwear, she inched over to the tub, leaned in, and turned on the faucet. While she waited for the water to heat, she extracted the paper from between her legs:

It was fully soaked. This validated Gemma’s long-held theory that there were just as many female serial killers as there were males, but women never got caught because they were experts at cleaning up blood. As she scrubbed her hands under the scalding water in

the sink, she began mentally working through the day’s tasks that stretched before her. There were so many things to do, the enormity of the day was stripping her of what little energy she had. Calvin was sleeping well, at least two-hour stretches at a time, but Gemma was struggling to sleep, even with Anthony taking turns with the feedings. Sleep always seemed to evade her, and when she found it, it was often punctuated with vivid

dreams. With all there was to do, she wouldn’t have time for a nap today, so she needed to focus on waking up. She knew it would have to be a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast. The thought of a bowl of Lucky Charms sent a flutter of excitement

through her chest.

In the shower she was careful to turn away from the stream of hot water. She had suffered such terrible breastfeeding woes with her older son that she had confidently decided she would never put herself (or another child) through that again. Besides, two different doctors and a lactation consultant had concluded that she simply couldn’t make milk. Like

she was some medical anomaly. And yet, after the liberating declaration this time that she wouldn’t do it—didn’t need to do it!—her breasts had become tender and prickly in a way they never had the first time around. She cried as she worked shampoo into her scalp. She knew it wasn’t just because of guilt over her untapped milk. But she let herself cry with abandon, refusing to acknowledge why she needed to. As she rinsed the shampoo, she forced her mind back to her task list and, as she always did, assigned each task an allotment of time. Getting Bo up and fed and in front of a cartoon would take about twelve minutes, if he didn’t throw a fit about which bowl his oatmeal was served in. And if he didn’t throw a fit about eating oatmeal in the first place. Getting Calvin’s diaper, making and giving him a bottle, burping him, and changing his clothes would take another twenty-two minutes. She would need to get herself dressed, with full makeup and hair blown out. She’d need at least forty-five minutes for that. And the house. The house had to be perfect. She was hoping for an hour and a half, minimum. And the food, and the setting of the table. Maybe a half hour. If she had time, she’d sweep the front porch.

As she stepped out of the shower, Gemma heard a soft knock at the door. “Yeah?” she responded.

“Can I come in?” Anthony asked.

“Give me a sec,” she said, pulling the mesh underwear and pad up around her damp legs. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the bathroom door to see him standing there. His sandy-blond hair in wild curls, his baby face adorned with round gold-rimmed glasses. He was short but surprisingly muscular beneath his rolled-collared sweater. Anthony had always exuded approachability and warmth.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

Help me? You aren’t my assistant, Gemma thought. “You know as well as I do what needs to be done,” she said flatly.

The smile left his face. “I just meant, is there something specific you want me to prioritize?”

Gemma stared at him. In moments like this, she couldn’t help but feel the inherent imbalance between them. No matter how good a partner Anthony was, his goodness was relative. As her mother always said to her, “He does more around the house than your father ever did!” Sure, her father never did the grocery shopping, but when Anthony did, Gemma still had to make him a list. She was supposed to be grateful for any closing of the gender gap, even though the gap still felt quite large in moments like these.

She swallowed her frustration. “We have so much to get done.”

“Just tell me what you need me to do.”

She shifted on her feet in an attempt to relieve the pain in her lower back. “Well, we need to get Bo up and fed.”

“I was letting him sleep as long as he would. But I can go get him up and ready.”

“If you can do that, I’ll get dressed and give Calvin his bottle.”

“Your voice,” he said, softer.

“What?”

“There’s always a slight tremor in your voice on days like this.”

Gemma worked to control the irritation rising in her throat. “Days like what?”

“When you’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed. I’m bleeding.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Maybe that’s it.”

“It is. Promise. And there’s just so much to do. Can you just please go get Bo up and ready? I’m worried about getting everything done.”

“Absolutely,” he said as he headed through their bedroom and into the hallway.

She closed the door behind him and opened her closet. She knew what she wanted to wear. She had thought about it even before the baby was born. Hours she’d spent in the last

few weeks of pregnancy scouring the websites of her favorite clothing stores, searching for the perfect outfit for today. It needed to look effortless. As though she were just naturally

put together. But it also had to be loose fitting; she had only gained twenty-four pounds during the pregnancy, and she was already down twelve of those, but her stomach was hollowed out and sagging, flapping a little over the top of her pubic hair. Whatever she wore, even if somewhat loose, also needed to be structured; she couldn’t look frumpy. Gemma couldn’t bear the look on her mother’s face if she looked frumpy.

She had settled on a navy T-shirt dress and had bought it in two sizes, not knowing how far postpartum she’d be today, and paid extra for overnight shipping. She had found a lime-

green infinity scarf and metallic sandals on sale a few weeks earlier. The dress and scarf would pair nicely with the white teardrop earrings Anthony had given her last year for her

birthday.

As she finished blow-drying her hair and began inserting her earrings, Anthony came back into the room.

“Did you clean the kitchen last night?” he asked, changing out of his pajamas.

Gemma stared into the mirror while threading an earring in. “Yes.”

“It looks amazing.”

“Oh,” she said, turning toward him. “Thank you.”

He smiled at her and pulled his T-shirt over his head. She looked at his bare chest for a moment before casting her eyes down.

“Shut it down,” he said playfully.

She forced a smile, but knew it was so weak it didn’t even reach her eyes. “Okay, I’m going to get Calvin and do a final sweep through the house,” she said.

“It looks perfect. There’s nothing left to do.”

But Gemma didn’t agree. She always felt as if she had not done enough.

She looked over herself in the mirror with disappointment. Her naturally wavy hair, which she usually blow-dried straight, looked frizzier than normal. Her eyes looked dark underneath, despite all the concealer. She felt short and dumpy and full of

dread. She walked out of their room and into the hallway to adjust the thermostat six degrees higher than normal. Her sister and mother always complained about how chilly her house was. Their grousing made her feel left out, somehow. Two skinny women huddled together on her couch, shivering under her cable-knit throw, while she was alone—and possibly fat—for not being the least bit chilled.

The day before she went into labor she had made a trip to the liquor store, taking rebellious joy in the judging looks of the shoppers watching her waddle down the aisles with her

arms full of glass bottles. She had wanted to get just the right imported beer, though she was never sure exactly which one her father preferred, so she always bought four or five different

kinds, which she and Anthony would take months to finish. Beer and coffee: that’s where she was able to show her father love. She had also stopped at a local coffee shop downtown to

buy beans. She hated that place. The coffee was good, sure, but she hardly felt it was worth all the pretense. The tattooed arms of the barista, the pink hair of the owner, the way they

served coffee in chemistry beakers. She abhorred that kind of snobbery. She didn’t much care for big coffee chains either, but she appreciated how they didn’t make her feel bad for not composting her coffee grounds. She had made the extra trip, despite how freakishly swollen her feet were that day, and despite the fact that she was technically on bed rest, in hopes that her father would appreciate the gesture. And she knew her brother, Eddie, would comment on the coffee if she dared to buy it at the grocery store.

As Gemma walked to the bedroom door, she turned back to Anthony. “You arranged for the food, right?”

“Yep. I’m picking up a deli tray from Juniper’s.”

A beautiful tray from Bloomington’s most popular deli would certainly please her mother.

“Thank you.”

“You bet. I’ll pick it up an hour before they get here so the meat and condiments are still cold.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” he said with a grin. “A decade with you and look how much I’ve learned about hosting.”

“You could never be me,” she said under her breath as she walked out of the room and toward the nursery. The last task she would need to complete—in between

feeding the baby, doctoring her stitches one more time, and vacuuming the stairs—would be to set up the guest room. She had been surprised to learn that Eddie was coming into

town, and downright floored that he wanted to stay with her. Given how long it had been since Eddie had come back to Bloomington, she had assumed he’d want to stay at a hotel,

or maybe even crash with an old high school friend. But he had emailed her to say he’d be flying in on the fifth to meet up with his running buddies as they were traveling en masse

to a marathon in Indianapolis. She had been thrilled to hear from him, her hands shaking as she texted her sister what was happening.

Eddie hadn’t been home in over ten years. The times the family had seen him in the last decade were when they met him and his wife somewhere during their extensive traveling.

Gemma’s sister once saw him at the Seattle airport when their business travel happened to sync up. And her parents planned some of their vacations to correspond with trips Eddie and

Kat were on, so they could at least share one meal together. During Gemma and Anthony’s first getaway as a couple, she made them take a slight detour to connect with Eddie and Kat

at a national park to go hiking. But Eddie never came to them. Gemma thought it would be healing for Eddie to stay at her place; perhaps they could have some quality time together,

and of course he could finally meet Bo. He’d never stayed with her, not even once, so she had taken this as a sign that they were good again. Or, more accurately, good for the first time

since the day of his football tryouts. Perhaps something had shifted in Eddie after three decades of keeping his distance.

While all this was exciting, perhaps even confounding, it also meant she had to hurriedly prep the guest room. They had moved into the house just over a year earlier, a decision

Anthony wasn’t quite on board with given the size of both the footprint and the mortgage payment. But Gemma had pushed for it, desperate to move out of their cheap new-construction home in the suburbs and into the expansive historical colonial,

which was full of charm and cracks. She was excited to have four bedrooms, although all the closets were tiny—a problem in older homes that suburbanites never faced. They had de-

cided to use the fourth room as their home office, but it also had to double as Bo’s playroom and triple as the guest room. Given that they had yet to have visitors, it had never been set

up for overnight guests. But since Eddie had told her he would be coming to stay, just three days before she went into labor, she had called a local furniture store, ordered a couch that

pulled out into a bed, and paid extra for next-day delivery. She had been eyeing the couch for some time, waiting for it to go on sale, but with Eddie coming she felt it was okay to go ahead

and buy it. She’d rather purchase an expensive piece she really wanted than a cheap air mattress as a temporary fix. She had put it on the credit card, telling Anthony that she would

pay it off quickly. She had taken on several new patients in the past few months, so they were doing better financially anyway.

“Therapists have built-in job security,” she always said with a laugh. So what was $2,500 more?

As Gemma savored the initial bite of Lucky Charms, her first taste of sugar since her gestational diabetes diagnosis, her phone lit up with a text. It was Eddie. Her heart jumped and she dropped her spoon, which landed loudly in the bowl, startling Calvin awake upstairs. Man, he’s a light sleeper, thought Gemma, annoyed. Despite the baby’s whimpers, she focused on the text:

We need someone to come get us from the airport.

We? Gemma thought. She hadn’t known that her sister-in-law was coming too. Kat traveled so much for her job that Gemma never once assumed she’d be part of this trip. She

was excited Kat would be coming, though it was strange she was just learning about it now. She immediately pushed that thought aside to respond to the text:

No problem. I’ll send Anthony.

Gemma watched as the bubbles pulsed on the screen.

We’ll also need to borrow a car. We didn’t get a rental, but we’ll be visiting a few friends while we’re in town.

Gemma stared at the phone with her eyebrows furrowed. When would Eddie and Kat have time to visit friends around town? They were only staying for two days. She shook her head and tapped her thumbs onto the screen.

Of course. You can borrow one of ours.

Gemma watched the screen, waiting for bubbles, but none came. Her shoulders felt tight as she analyzed their brief text exchange. Eddie always wrote with a cool detachment that Gemma struggled to match. She sat back, preparing herself to tell Anthony that he now needed to fill up the tank, vacuum the Goldfish crumbs out of the floorboards, remove the car seats, and pump up that left-front tire before handing Eddie the keys.

Calvin’s cries began to grow in intensity. She gave the phone one last look before locking it, slowly stood—so as not to pull the stitches—and made her way to the stairs. With each

step up she could feel that her pad was already soaked again. She needed to have a bowel movement too, but she was terrified. She remembered how painful that had been after giving

birth to Bo. Of course, she had also torn six ways to Sunday with Bo, which had made that first shit worse than the birth itself. As she reached the top of the stairs, she made a decision

not to defecate until Eddie and Kat were gone. And with that, she felt her insides arrange themselves to fit her plan. She shuffled into the nursery and picked up her crying, red-faced baby. Her half-eaten bowl of cereal, still sitting on the kitchen table downstairs, had gone soggy.

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Meg Myers Morgan is a best-selling and award-winning author whose books speak to the nuances of womanhood, work, and self-worth. Her collection of essays, Harebrained: It seemed like a good idea at the time (Gem Publishing, 2015), won the gold medal from the Independent Publishers Book Awards. Her career development book, Everything is Negotiable: The Five Tactics to Get What You Want in Life, Love, and Work (Seal Press/Hachette, 2018) is a bestseller and has been translated in multiple languages. The Inconvenient Unraveling of Gemma Sinclair (GFB, 2025) is Meg's debut novel . Meg earned her degree in Creative Writing with Honors in English from Drury University, and her masters and PhD from the University of Oklahoma. She is currently an associate professor at the University of Oklahoma. Meg, her husband, and her two daughters are all citizens of the Cherokee Nation and live in Tulsa.