One. But if it happens again
So whats gotten into you? The bellys empty now, so its time to get on with the chores. Floors dont clean themselves, he said with that smug look, as if he were handing me a knighthood for finally being able to grip a mop again.
I was standing in a wreck of a flat. No exaggeration dishes piled high, an empty fridge, sticky tiles. In the corner of the balcony, the broken drying rack still held the robe Id worn on my way to the maternity ward a month and a half ago. No flowers. No notes. No drop of respect. Just his indifferent stare, like Id walked in as some nosy neighbour.
They say women get hypersensitive after giving birth. It isnt the hormones, right? Its how were met, what were told, whether we get a hug or are left cold.
Are you joking? I whispered, looking at him. Ive just come back with triplets. After the operation
And what now? he snapped. Csection, like you said. All under anaesthetic. You didnt give birth, you just lay there. Stop pretending. Youre pumping milk? Fine, do it. But thats not an excuse for not tidying up.
At first I thought he was joking. Then I thought hed lost his mind. Then I wondered if maybe Id gone off the deep end, because once I loved him, didnt I?
My head was buzzing, my heart stalled. I stood with a travel bag full of nightgowns, pads and two pairs of slippers Id knitted while pregnant. And he talked to me like I was a lazy housewife whod just returned from a holiday.
You didnt even pick us up from the hospital, I exhaled. I had to ask the nurse to call a cab myself
You wanted to be independent! he shouted. The whole pregnancy you ran from me. All on your own So keep going on your own.
Carrying a child isnt about weakness. Its about faith that someone will back you, that you wont be left alone, that a loved one will be by your side. And if not?
If you cant manage, Ill call my mum, he muttered, heading to the bathroom. Shell turn you into a proper housewife.
Ah, the sweet simplicity of his mum. Margaret Whitaker. A woman whose stare could boil an egg. Even the stray cats on the high street gave her a wide berth. Always in a grey coat, short hair, voice like steel. Nobody argued with her, not even the boss.
I expected her to stride in like a judge, scolding, wielding a broom. But she came in silently.
There was something in her eyes. Something else.
She glanced around, at me, at my tired face, at my silence.
Are you cleaning? she asked suddenly.
I didnt get a chance to answer.
After a Csection? Get down on the floor right now!
I froze. She hung up her coat, slipped on an apron, grabbed a rag and a bucket, and started scrubbing the tiles.
Sometimes kindness shows up in the most unexpected packages even a sharpvoiced, steelyeyed woman.
Half an hour later the kitchen smelled of roast potatoes and carrots. I was curled up on the sofa under a pile of pillows, while Margaret was rinsing towels, humming:
Triplets, now thats something
When my husband finally shuffled back, phone in hand, smile plastered on, she lunged at him like a storm:
Have you gone mad?! A woman just delivered three babies! Thats surgery, pain, recovery! And youre washing the floor?!
Mum, but you said
Me?! You promised youd handle it. That you loved us. That you had everything under control. I believed you!
She sighed, looked at me, and whispered:
Monster. Youre a monster in a humans skin.
When a mother sides with another woman, it feels like a win. Bitter, but necessary.
Who the heck planted that idea in your head?!
He shrugged.
A colleague Paul. He kept saying a Csection isnt real birth, that milk is nonsense, that women just make stuff up
QUIET! she shouted.
He went silent.
That same day trouble brewed at his office. Colleagues heard his chatter. And Tanya the same friend whod helped me through the pregnancy had had enough.
You saw a woman after a Csection?! You saw her sleepless for weeks?! You saw her in constant pain?!
The boss called him in and sent him on forced leave, no return until the matter was cleared.
Paul, the inspirer, got investigated for harassment and abuse of power. Karma doesnt rush, but it hits right on the head.
Margaret took the baby boy in for a fortnight. When he came back, he was different: quiet, clutching a parenting book, and a pot of stew.
Im sorry, he knelt. I was an idiot. Selfish. Give me another chance. One.
I stared at him for a long while, then said:
One. But if it happens again
It wont, he cut in. I swore to Mum. Swearing to her is scarier than swearing to you. Im sorry.
Sometimes a fall is needed to see the mistake. Not everyone improves, but I got a second chance, and he got one too.
From then on things shifted. Not overnight, but they shifted. He learned to change diapers, make porridge, get up at night. He apologised for everything, every painful day.
Margaret turned up every Saturday with fresh scones and a simple line:
Youre not alone now. Remember that.
And I wasnt. I had kids, support, a family, and a husband who now flips pancakes and shouts at noisy neighbours while the little ones nap.
Theres a phrase thats become my talisman:
Youre not alone now.
