Chapter 2 - THE SEVENTEEN CALLSI drove only six miles.
Then he turned the television louder.
For a moment, I thought exhaustion had made me hear him wrong.
Noah was crying against my chest, his tiny face red, his fists trembling beneath the hospital blanket I still used because I had barely slept long enough to unpack anything since we came home.
My body hurt everywhere.
I was still bleeding.
My stitches burned whenever I stood.
My breasts were swollen and painful, my shirt was damp with milk, and I had slept maybe six broken hours in five days.
“Daniel,” I whispered. “Please.”
My husband didn’t look at me.
“I haven’t slept more than forty minutes at a time.”
He lifted his beer.
“My meeting starts at seven tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So I need sleep.”
I stared at him.
“You’re on paternity leave.”
Daniel finally turned.
His expression made something cold settle inside me.
“From work,” he said. “Not from my life.”
Across the room, his mother, Patricia, sat comfortably in my favorite chair eating grapes.
She had arrived the morning after we came home from the hospital.
She claimed she was there to help.
So far, she had criticized my breastfeeding, complained that Noah cried too much, told me the house smelled strange, rearranged my kitchen without asking, and somehow never once changed a diaper.
Patricia sighed.
“When I had Daniel, his father went back to work immediately. I handled everything.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“It made me a mother.”
I looked down at Noah.
My beautiful little boy finally stopped crying enough to take a shaky breath.
Then Daniel laughed.
Not loudly.
That almost made it worse.
“You wanted this baby more than I did, Rachel.”
I slowly looked up.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He leaned back on the couch.
“For two years, all I heard was baby, baby, baby. Doctors. Vitamins. Appointments. Fertility calendars. Now you finally got what you wanted.”
His eyes moved toward Noah.
“So deal with it.”
I felt as though someone had opened a door inside my chest and let winter rush through.
Noah had not been my dream alone.
Daniel had held my hands during our first fertility appointment.
Daniel had painted the nursery.
Daniel had posted the ultrasound picture online with the caption, Can’t wait to meet my little man.
Daniel had cried when the doctor told us we were having a son.
At least, I thought he had.
Now I wondered how much of our marriage had been performance.
“Daniel,” I said quietly, “I almost died giving birth.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I lost enough blood that they kept me an extra night.”
“But you didn’t die.”
Patricia laughed softly.
“Exactly.”
Something inside me became very still.
Not broken.
Still.
There is a difference.
Broken people sometimes beg.
Still people start noticing things.
I noticed Daniel’s phone lying facedown beside him.
I noticed the expensive watch on his wrist—the watch he had told me we couldn’t afford three months earlier.
I noticed Patricia’s suitcase still beside the stairs, although she had announced that morning that she planned to stay “until Rachel learns how to manage the baby properly.”
And suddenly I remembered the black folder.
It was upstairs.
Bottom drawer of my desk.
Behind tax documents Daniel had never bothered reading because finances bored him unless the money was being spent on him.
Three months earlier, my attorney had told me to keep it somewhere safe.
I had almost thrown it away after Noah was born.
I had almost convinced myself I would never need it.
Then Daniel said, “And stop expecting Mom to wait on you. She’s a guest.”
I looked at Patricia.
A guest.
In the house my grandmother had left me.
A house Daniel told everyone belonged to us.
Slowly, I stood.
Pain shot through my abdomen.
Daniel rolled his eyes.
“Oh, here we go.”
I carried Noah upstairs.
I changed him.
Fed him.
Wrapped him carefully.
Then I pulled a small suitcase from the closet.
Three outfits for me.
Six for Noah.
Diapers.
Formula samples.
Documents.
Medication.
My laptop.
And finally, the black folder.
I tucked it beneath Noah’s blankets.
Twenty minutes later, I came downstairs.
Daniel looked over.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
Patricia laughed.
“With a five-day-old baby? Don’t be ridiculous.”
I kept walking.
Daniel stood.
“Rachel.”
I reached the front door.
He followed me.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
“To somewhere I’m not treated like an inconvenience.”
He scoffed.
“You’ll be back tomorrow.”
I opened the door.
Then the black folder slipped slightly from beneath Noah’s blanket.
Daniel saw it.
His face changed.
The smirk disappeared.
“Wait.”
I froze.
He stared at the folder.
“Rachel, what’s in there?”
For the first time all week, my husband looked afraid.
I tightened my arm around our son.
“You should know.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
Daniel stepped forward.
“Rachel.”
Behind him, Patricia stood up.
“What is that?”
Daniel ignored her.
“Rachel, don’t walk out that door.”
I looked at the man I had loved for seven years.
Then I said the words I wished I had learned much earlier.
“You don’t get to order me anymore.”
And I walked out.
What Daniel did not know was that the black folder contained three things.
Proof that he had been lying to me.
Proof that his mother had helped him.
And one signed document that meant the house behind me had never belonged to Daniel at all.
But even I did not yet understand the most dangerous secret hidden inside those pages.
May you like
By morning, someone would break into my house looking for them.
And Daniel would call me seventeen times before sunrise.
Related Stories
