My milk ducts clogged.
Searing pain shot through my chest until I burned with fever. My husband didn't offer a single word of comfort. Instead, as our son wailed from hunger, he glared at me.
"Can't you do anything right? You're useless."
The chill struck again, freezing a little more of my heart.
At night, the baby cried constantly. My husband moved to the guest room, claiming he needed his sleep for work. From that moment on, the feeding, the diapers, the endless rocking—all of it fell on me.
With no one to help, I had to grit my teeth and resign from the job I loved. I became a housewife. A woman who had to hold out her hand for money.
My world shrank. No friends. No social life. Just endless cleaning, scrubbing bottles, and the piercing wail of an infant. I was a machine, running twenty-four hours a day.
My husband would come home, announce that he was tired, and collapse onto the sofa to scroll through videos or play games.
If I asked him to watch the baby for ten minutes, he would pretend not to hear. If he did agree, he wouldn't move—his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Before marriage, he used to help with chores. Now, he stepped over piles of laundry and ignored the clutter as if it didn't exist.
If I complained, his face would darken.
"You stay home all day. You do a little cleaning and watch a kid. Why are you always acting like you're so exhausted?"
The ice in my chest hardened.
I tried to talk to him, to share small moments from my day. At first, he would grunt in response. Later, he just snapped.
"Are you annoying or what? I don't care about these trivial things. I work all day. Can't you just let me have some peace?"
He slammed the bedroom door in my face. Moments later, the sound of video game gunfire and his laughter drifted through the wood.
I stood in the hallway, blinking back tears, refusing to let them fall.
---
Then came the night our son spiked a high fever.
He cried until his voice was hoarse.
"Shut him up!" my husband yelled from the other room. "You can't even take care of a child properly?"
Outside, a storm was raging. I begged him to drive us to the hospital.
"I have work tomorrow." He turned over in bed. "Call a taxi."
The final ember of hope inside me died.
My son was burning up. I grabbed the medical bag, wrapped him in a blanket, and ran out into the downpour. Rain lashed against my face, mixing with the tears I could no longer hold back.
Sitting in the hospital hallway, watching the IV drip into my son's small arm, I remembered our wedding vows.
*I will cherish you. I will never let you suffer.*
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
The most ridiculous lie I had ever heard. I thought I had found shelter from the storm.
But he *was* the storm.
---
When we finally returned home, the apartment was a disaster. Dirty clothes littered the floor. A mountain of unwashed dishes rotted in the sink.
Something inside me snapped.
I didn't scream. I just walked into the kitchen and swept the stack of bowls onto the floor.
*CRASH.*
Porcelain exploded. Shards skittered across the tiles. My son screamed in terror.
My husband rushed out of the bedroom, phone still in his hand, the game paused.
"Are you crazy?" Disgust twisted his features.
I started to laugh. I couldn't stop. A ragged, hysterical sound clawed its way out of my throat until I was gasping for air, tears streaming down my face.
