One. But if it happens again
So why have you turned into this? The babys gone, so its time to get on with things. The floor wont clean itself, he says, as if hes handing me a Nobel Prize for being able to hold a mop again.
I stand in the wreckage of my kitchen. It isnt an exaggeration: dirty dishes piled up, an empty fridge, a sticky floor. In the corner on the balcony a broken drying rack still holds the nightgown I wore when I went into labour the same one I left on the couch a month and a half ago.
No flowers. No notes. No drop of respect.
Only his indifferent stare, as if Im just a neighbour who walked in without knocking.
They say women become overly sensitive after giving birth. But it isnt the hormones, is it? Its how were met, the words we hear, the hugs or the lack of them.
Are you mocking me? I whisper, looking at him. Ive just come back with triplets. After the operation
And what? he snaps. A Csection, like you said. All under anaesthetic. You didnt deliver, you just lay there. Stop pretending. Do you even pump? Well, do it. It doesnt stop you from tidying the house.
At first I think hes joking. Then I think hes lost his mind. Then I wonder if maybe Im the one whos gone off the rails. After all, I once loved him, didnt I?
My head races. My heart freezes. I stand with a travel bag full of nightgowns, pads and two pairs of slippers I knitted while pregnant. And he talks to me as if Im a lazy housewife fresh back from a holiday.
You didnt even pick us up from the hospital, I exhale. I asked the nurse to call a taxi myself
You wanted to be independent! he shouts. All the while the pregnancy fled from me. All on your own, on your own So go on and do it yourself.
Carrying a child isnt a sign of weakness. Its a sign of faith. That someone will support you. That you wont be left alone. That a loved one will stand by you. And if not?
If you cant manage, Ill call my mum, he mutters and heads to the bathroom. Shell turn you into a proper housewife.
Ah, sweet simplicity. His mother. Margaret Hawthorne. A woman whose glance could boil an egg. Even the street cats kept their distance. Always in a grey coat, short hair, and a voice like steel. No one argued with her. Not even the boss.
I expect her to arrive like a judge, with scoldings, mockery, a broom in hand.
Instead she steps in silently.
Theres something in her eyes. Something different.
She surveys the room, me, my dishevelled look, my silence.
Are you cleaning? she asks suddenly.
I havent answered.
After giving birth?! Get down to work at once!
I freeze. She hangs her coat, pulls on an apron, grabs a cloth and a bucket, and starts scrubbing the floor.
Sometimes kindness arrives in an unexpected package. Even as a sharpvoiced, sternlooking woman.
In half an hour the kitchen smells of beef stew. I lie on the sofa, piled under cushions, while Margaret rinses towels and murmurs:
Triplets, now thats something
When my husband returns, phone in hand and a grin, she flies at him like a storm:
Have you lost your mind?! Youve brought three babies into the world! This is surgery, pain, recovery! And youre cleaning the floor?!
Mum, but you said
Me?! You promised youd handle it. That you loved us. That everything was under control. I believed you!
She sighs, looks at me and says quietly:
Monster. Youre a monster in a humans skin.
When a mother sides with another woman, its a victory. Bitter, but necessary.
Who put that idea in your head?!
He shrugs.
A colleague Paul. He said a Csection isnt a birth, that milk is nonsense, that women just make things up
SILENCE! she shouts.
He goes quiet.
That very day trouble erupts at his job. Colleagues overhear his remarks. And Sarah the same friend who supported me through pregnancy cant stand it.
Youve seen a woman after a Csection?! Youve seen her not sleeping for weeks?! Youve seen her in constant pain?!
The manager calls him in and puts him on unpaid leave pending investigation.
Paul, the inspirer, lands in a misconduct probe: harassment, abuse of power.
Karma doesnt rush, but it hits precisely.
Margaret takes my son in. Two weeks later he returns a different boy: quiet, clutching a book on parenting, carrying a pot of stew.
Im sorry, he kneels. I was foolish. Selfish. Give me a chance. One.
I stare at him for a long moment, then say:
One. But if it happens again
It wont, he cuts in. I swore to your mother. And swearing to her scares me more than swearing to you. Im sorry.
Sometimes a fall is needed to see the mistake. Not everyone improves. Luck favours me. He gets a second chance.
From then on things change. Not instantly, but they do.
He learns to swaddle, to make porridge, to wake up at night. He apologises for everything. For every aching day.
Margaret visits every Saturday with scones and says:
Youre not alone now. Remember that.
And I am not alone. I have children, support, a family, and a husband who flips pancakes and shouts at noisy neighbours while the babies sleep.
There are words that have become my talisman:
Youre not alone now.
