She Came Home After Giving Birth, and I Asked, “What’s for Dinner?” — What Happened Next Changed Me Forever
PART 3
Teresa said something I couldn’t hear.
Allison answered.
“No. Don’t come tonight.”
Another pause.
“I know. I know you warned me.”
My stomach tightened.
Warned her?
About me?
I backed away from the bedroom door before she could hear me.
I went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table.
The house was completely quiet except for the refrigerator humming.
Mateo made a tiny sound from the bedroom.
Then silence again.
I stared at the casserole.
It was still sitting in the refrigerator.
I took it out.
For some reason, I put it in the microwave.
Then I stood there watching it spin.
I thought about my mother.
When I was eight, my little sister had the flu. My mother had worked a twelve-hour shift, come home, made soup, cleaned the bathroom, washed sheets, and still packed my lunch for school.
My father had sat at the table and complained that the chicken was dry.
I remembered him saying, “Your mother always gets dramatic when she’s tired.”
I remembered my mother laughing afterward.
But now, sitting alone in my kitchen, I wondered if she had actually been laughing.
Maybe she had simply learned not to cry in front of us.
The microwave beeped.
I jumped.
I opened the door and stared at the casserole.
I didn’t want it.
But I ate it anyway.
At 12:17, I heard the bedroom door open.
Allison came downstairs carrying Mateo.
Her face looked pale.
She didn’t look at me.
She walked straight to the couch.
I stood up.
“Who were you talking to?”
She stopped.
“Mom.”
“What did you tell her?”
She looked at me then.
Her eyes were red.
“The truth.”
I felt something hot rise in my chest.
“You made me sound like some kind of monster.”
“No.”
“You told her everything.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell her what happened at the hospital.”
Her expression changed.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I was there.”
“I know.”
“I stayed with you.”
She stared at me.
“You stayed in the room.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you were physically there.”
I waited.
She continued.
“You weren’t there for me.”
I laughed.
It was a nervous laugh.
“I held your hand.”
“You held my leg because the nurse told you to.”
“I cut the cord.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t leave.”
“You left after they took Mateo to the nursery.”
“I was exhausted.”
“I know.”
Her voice was so calm that it made me angry.
“You slept in the chair while I was being stitched back together.”
I didn’t answer.
“You complained about the coffee.”
“I was tired.”
“You told the nurse she was taking too long.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You asked when we could go home.”
I looked away.
She shifted Mateo against her chest.
“I remember all of it.”
That was when I realized something.
I remembered the birth as an event.
Allison remembered it as something that had happened to her body.
I remembered the clock.
She remembered pain.
I remembered the moment Mateo cried.
She remembered being terrified that he might not.
I remembered cutting the cord.
She remembered the surgeon saying they needed to move quickly.
For the first time, I understood that we had been in the same room but lived through completely different experiences.
I sat down.
“Allison…”
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“I know.”
“I can do better.”
She looked down at Mateo.
“You always say that after I get angry.”
“I mean it this time.”
She didn’t answer.
I stared at my hands.
“Do you hate me?”
She closed her eyes for a moment.
“No.”
That should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
“I wish I did,” she whispered.
My throat tightened.
She looked at me.
“But I don’t.”
Mateo began to fuss.
Allison immediately adjusted him.
She winced.
I noticed.
For the first time, I noticed.
“You’re hurting.”
She gave a small, bitter smile.
“Yes.”
“Do you need your medicine?”
“Yes.”
I stood up.
“I’ll get it.”
She didn’t stop me.
I grabbed my keys.
The pharmacy was closed.
I stood outside the dark glass doors at 12:31 in the morning, staring at the hours posted on the window.
Closed.
I called the number.
An automated message told me the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy was eleven miles away.
I drove there.
On the way, I kept thinking about the prescription.
The one thing she had asked me to do.
The one thing I had turned into an argument.
