One. But if it happens again
So whats changed you? The bellys empty now, which means its time to get on with the chores. The floors wont clean themselves, he says, looking as if hes handing me a Nobel Prize for finally being able to hold a mop again.
I stand amid the wreckage. Not an exaggeration. True chaos: dirty dishes piled up, an empty fridge, a sticky floor. In the corner of the balcony a broken drying rack still holds the coat I wore on the way to the maternity ward the same one I left a month and a half ago.
No flowers. No note. No drop of respect.
Only his indifferent stare, as if I were just a neighbour who slipped in without knocking.
They say women become overly sensitive after giving birth. But it isnt the hormones, is it? Its how were received. What were spoken to. How were embraced or not embraced at all.
Are you mocking me? I whisper, looking at him. I just got back with the triplets. After the operation
And then? he snaps. A Csection, like you said. All under anaesthetic. You didnt actually give birth, you just lay there. Stop pretending. Youre milking? Fine, do it. But that doesnt stop you from tidying the house.
At first I think hes joking. Then I think hes lost his mind. And then I wonder if Im the one whos lost it, because I once loved him, didnt I?
My head spins. My heart stops. I stand with a travel bag containing nightgowns, pads and two pairs of slippers I knitted while pregnant. He talks to me as if Im a lazy girl who just returned from 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 pregnancy months you ran away from me. All by yourself, yourself Now keep going on your own.
Carrying a child isnt about weakness. Its about faith. That someone will support you. That you wont be left alone. That a loved one will stay by your side. And if not?
If you cant manage, Ill call my mother, he mutters and heads to the bathroom. Shell turn you into a proper housewife.
Ah, simple devotion. His mother. Mrs. Harriet Whitcombe. A woman whose stare could boil an egg. Even the street cats kept their distance. Always in a grey coat, short hair, and a voice like steel. You didnt argue with her, not even the boss.
I expected her to arrive like a judge, with scoldings, sneers, a broom in hand.
Instead she walks in silently.
Theres something in her eyes. Something else.
She scans the room, looks at me, at my dishevelled state, at my silence.
Are you cleaning? she asks suddenly.
I havent answered.
After a Csection?! Get down on the floor now!
I freeze. She hangs her coat, dons an apron, grabs a cloth and a bucket, and starts scrubbing the floor.
Sometimes kindness arrives in an unexpected form, even as a sternvoiced woman with a serious gaze.
Within half an hour the kitchen smells of stew. I lie on the sofa, surrounded by pillows, while Mrs. Whitcombe rinses towels and murmurs:
Triplets, thats something
When my husband walks in, phone in hand and a grin, she turns on him like a storm:
Have you lost your mind?! A woman just brought three babies into the world! Thats surgery, pain, recovery! And you? Washing 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 softly:
Monster. Youre a monster in human form.
When a mother sides with another woman, its a victory. Harsh, but necessary.
Who put this in your head?!
He shrugs.
A colleague Paul. He claimed a Csection isnt a birth, that milk is nonsense, that women just make things up
QUIET! she shouts.
He falls silent.
That same day trouble starts at his job. Colleagues overhear his comments. And Beth, the same woman who supported me through the pregnancy, cant stand it.
Youve seen a woman after a Csection? Seen her not sleep for weeks? Seen her in constant pain?!
The manager calls him in and puts him on leave, no right to return until things are sorted.
Paul, the inspirer, gets investigated for harassment and abuse of power.
Karma doesnt rush, but it hits precisely.
Mrs. Whitcombe takes the baby boy in. Two weeks later he returns changed: quiet, clutching a book on parenting, and 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 my mother. And swearing to her is scarier than swearing to you. Im sorry.
Sometimes a fall is needed to see the mistake. Not everyone improves. Fate spared me; he got a second chance.
From then on things shift. Not instantly, but they do.
He learns to swaddle, to make porridge, to rise at night. He apologises for everything, for each painful day.
Mrs. Whitcombe shows up every Saturday with scones and says:
Youre not alone now. Remember that.
And I am not alone. I have children, support, family, and a husband who flips pancakes and argues with noisy neighbours while our little ones sleep.
There are words that have become my talisman:
Youre not alone now.
