Chapter 5
718words
It started a year ago, shortly after my son's birth—what the doctors called "mild postpartum depression."
Not wanting to burden Loki or give my in-laws another reason to look down on me, I secretly sought treatment.
That morning stands crystal clear in my memory. I stood beside the crib, watching my son sleep peacefully in his swaddling blanket.
"I need to go for a checkup today," I told Loki. "Could you watch him? Make sure to feed him formula every three hours."
He barely glanced up from his phone, mumbling "Yeah, sure," his attention elsewhere.
The hospital visit stretched for hours beyond what I'd planned.
The doctor diagnosed postpartum depression and insisted on immediate counseling. I sat on that cold plastic chair, fingers twisted together, terrified of anyone finding out—especially Loki.
By the time I made it home, midnight had come and gone.
The house was dark and silent—no lights, no TV noise, nothing.
Loki, who should have been home with our baby, was nowhere in sight.
"Loki?" I called, flipping on lights as I moved through the empty rooms. Only silence answered.
My heart plummeted as I rushed toward the nursery.
I nearly tripped in my haste, throwing open the nursery door.
My son lay curled in his crib, his tiny cheeks burning with fever, his lips blue-tinged. He didn't even have the strength to cry—just shallow, labored breaths.
When I touched his forehead, it burned like a hot iron against my palm.
What followed exists in my memory as fragmented chaos.
The ambulance siren wailing through the night. Harsh fluorescent hospital lights. Nurses running. The doctor's face as he removed his mask:
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dalton. We did everything possible."
I cradled his tiny body as it grew colder in my arms, too hollow even for tears.
When reality finally penetrated the fog, I found myself surrounded—Loki, his parents, various relatives I barely recognized.
They stared at me like I was a monster.
Loki's mother lunged forward, her face contorted with rage. "How could you abandon your baby?! What kind of mother are you?!"
I tried to explain that I'd left specific instructions with Loki.
But Loki exploded: "You expect me to remember something you mentioned in passing? I had no idea where you went! What hospital? What illness? Why the hell were you gone until midnight? What was so damn important you'd leave our son alone?!"
My mind simply... stopped.
"You killed our son," he said, each word deliberate and cold. "This is all your fault."
Those words hit harder than any physical blow.
Everyone joined the chorus, their accusations raining down from all sides.
Their words drowned me like stones tied to my ankles, pulling me down into freezing depths.
Eventually, I started to believe them. I had killed my child.
For months, I lived in a fog of self-hatred. Each night, I'd curl in the corner of our bed, clutching his empty blanket, whispering apologies to a child who couldn't hear them.
"I'm so sorry, baby... Mommy failed you... Mommy should have protected you better..."
My depression spiraled into something darker, more consuming.
One night, I stood on our balcony, toes curled over the edge, thinking how easy it would be to join my son.
It was Loki who pulled me back, arms wrapped around me so tight I could barely breathe.
He cleared his schedule, stayed by my side day and night, took me on trips to "heal."
On a sunlit beach, walking barefoot through the surf, he squeezed my hand and whispered, "It's over now. We can try again... have another baby when you're ready."
He brushed tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "Stop punishing yourself, Alice. I don't blame you anymore."
His kindness only deepened my guilt.
When he started finding other women again, I said nothing. Did nothing.
I convinced myself I deserved it. I'd failed him. As long as he came home to me, as long as some fraction of his love remained mine, I could endure anything.
Looking back now, I can't recognize that broken woman.
I believed I'd escaped my father's shadow into freedom. Instead, I'd merely been warming someone else's seat—and now that she'd returned, I wasn't even qualified to be the replacement anymore.
