Laika had spent months wondering whether postpartum depression was making her too suspicious. Then a woman’s voice came through the nursery camera and asked her fiancé, Steve, if he was sure Laika would not return.
We had a six-month-old baby and a wedding we kept postponing.
Our bills also seemed to arrive faster than we could pay them.
Steve had started working late and checking his phone during dinner.
He would wake up irritated over things that had never bothered him before.
Whenever I asked if something was wrong, he gave me the same tired smile.
“I’m just under pressure, Laika.”
I wanted to believe him.
After Nolan was born, I struggled more than I expected.
Some mornings, I cried before I even got out of bed.
Other nights, I lay awake long after the baby fell asleep, convinced I was failing at everything.
My doctor called it postpartum depression.
Steve said he understood, but over time, he began treating every concern I raised like another symptom.
If I asked why he came home late, I was overthinking.
If I noticed him hiding his phone, I was being anxious.
If I said I felt alone, he told me he was doing the best he could.
So I stopped asking as many questions.
I apologized more.
I tried to become easier to live with.
Last weekend, I took Nolan to my parents’ house so they could spend time with him.
My mother, Grace, had been asking for weeks.
My father, Evans, had already bought enough baby toys to fill an entire room.
Steve was supposed to come with us.
The night before, however, he stood in the kitchen with one hand pressed against his forehead.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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