One. Yet if it happened again
So why have you turned so cold? The belly is empty now, which means its time to take up the chores. The floors wont sweep themselves, he said, his tone as if he were handing me a Nobel Prize for being able to clutch a mop once more.
I stood amid the wreckage. No exaggerationtrue chaos: dirty dishes piled up, a barren fridge, a sticky floor. In the corner of the back garden shed, a broken dryer still bore my coat, the very one I had worn when I headed to the maternity ward a month and a half ago.
No flowers. No note. No drop of respect.
Only the indifferent stare of my husband, as if I were merely a neighbour whod wandered in without knocking.
They say women become overly sensitive after giving birth. But it isnt the hormones, is it? Its how were greeted. What were spoken to. Whether were embraced or not at all.
Are you mocking me? I whispered, looking at him. Ive just returned with a set of triplets. After the operation
And what of it? he snapped, irritated. A Caesarean, as you called it. All under anaesthetic. You didnt labour; you simply lay there. Stop pretending. Youre milking? Fine, milk if you must, but it doesnt excuse leaving the house filthy.
At first I thought he was joking. Then I thought hed lost his mind. And then I wondered if perhaps I had, for I once loved him, didnt I?
My head throbbed. My heart halted. I stood with a travel bag containing nightgowns, sanitary pads and two pairs of baby booties I had sewn while pregnant. He talked to me as if I were a lazy woman who had just come back from a holiday.
You didnt even fetch us from the hospital, I exhaled. I asked the nurse to call a cab myself
You wanted to be independent! he cried. All through the pregnancy you fled from me. All on your own Now go on and manage yourself.
Carrying a child isnt about weakness. Its about faith. Faith that youll be supported. Faith that you wont be left alone. Faith that a loved one will stand beside you. And if not?
If you cant cope, Ill call your mother, he muttered, shuffling off to the bathroom. Shell turn you into a proper housewife.
Ah, the blessed simplicity of his mother. Agnes Whitmore, a woman whose stare could boil an egg. Even the street cats steered clear of her. Always in a grey coat, short hair, voice metallic. No one argued with hernot even the foreman.
I expected her to come like a magistrate, berating, brandishing a broom. Yet she entered silently.
There was something in her eyes. Something different.
She surveyed everything: me, my appearance, my silence.
Are you cleaning? she asked abruptly.
I hadnt answered.
After a delivery?! Right away, lie down!
I fell silent. She hung her coat, donned an apron, grabbed a rag and a bucket, and began scrubbing the floor.
Sometimes kindness arrives in an unexpected shape, even as a sternvoiced woman with a serious gaze.
Within half an hour the kitchen smelled of stew. I lay on the settee, surrounded by cushions, while Agnes Whitmore rinsed towels, murmuring:
Triplets, now thats something
When my husband returned, phone in hand and a grin on his face, she lunged at him like a storm:
Have you lost your mind?! A woman has brought three children into the world! This is surgery, pain, recovery! And you? Scrubbing floors?!
Mother, but you said
Me?! You promised you could manage. That you loved us. That everything was under control. I believed you!
She sighed, looked at me, and whispered:
Monster. Youre a monster in human form.
When a mother sides with another woman, it is a victorybitter, but necessary.
Who ever planted that thought in your head?!
My husband shrugged.
A colleague Paul. He claimed a Caesarean wasnt a birth, that milk was nonsense, that women imagined everything
SILENCE! she roared.
He fell quiet.
That very day trouble brewed at his work. Colleagues overheard his remarks. And Tanya, the same friend who had supported me through the pregnancy, could not stand it.
Have you seen a woman after a Caesarean? Seen her sleepless for weeks? Felt her constant ache?!
The manager summoned him and sent him on indefinite leave pending investigation.
Paul, the inspirer, faced a probe for harassment and abuse of power. Karma moves slowly, but it never misses.
Agnes Whitmore took my son in. Two weeks later he returned altered: quiet, clutching a book on parenting, and a pot of stew.
Im sorry, he knelt. I was foolish, selfish. Give me one chance.
I stared at him for a long while, then said:
One. But if it happens again
It wont, he cut in. I swore to your mother. Swearing to her is scarier than swearing to you. Forgive me.
Sometimes a fall is needed to recognise an error. Not everyone improves. Luck favoured me; he was given a chance.
From that point everything changed. Not instantly, but it did change.
He learned to swaddle, to make porridge, to rise at night. He apologizedevery day, for every pain.
Agnes Whitmore visited every Saturday bearing scones, saying:
Youre no longer alone. Remember that.
And I was no longer alone. I now had children, support, a family, and a husband who flips pancakes and shouts at noisy neighbours while our little ones sleep.
There are words that have become my talisman:
Youre no longer alone.
