For months, Laika had questioned her own instincts, wondering whether postpartum depression was making her suspicious of everything around her. Then, one afternoon, a woman’s voice came through the baby monitor. She was laughing in Laika’s bedroom and asking her fiancé, Steve, whether he was certain Laika wouldn’t come back.
We had a six-month-old baby, a wedding that kept getting postponed, and a growing pile of bills that seemed to arrive faster than we could pay them.
Steve had been working late more often. He constantly checked his phone during dinner, and even the smallest inconveniences seemed to irritate him.
Whenever I asked whether something was wrong, he gave me the same exhausted smile.
“I’m just under pressure, Laika.”
I wanted to believe him. More than anything, I wanted to believe that we were simply going through a difficult period.
After Nolan was born, however, I struggled far more than I had expected.
Some mornings, I cried before I could even get out of bed. Other nights, I lay awake long after the baby had fallen asleep, convinced I was failing as a mother, a partner, and a person.
Eventually, my doctor diagnosed me with postpartum depression.
Steve initially said he understood. But as the months passed, something changed. He began treating nearly every concern I expressed as another symptom of my condition.
If I asked why he was coming home late, I was overthinking things.
If I noticed him hiding his phone, I was being anxious.
If I admitted that I felt lonely, he reminded me that he was doing the best he could.
Eventually, I stopped asking so many questions.
I apologized more often, kept my concerns to myself, and tried to become easier to live with.
Last weekend, I decided to take Nolan to my parents’ house so they could spend some time with their grandson.
My mother, Grace, had been asking me to visit for weeks. My father, Evans, had already purchased enough baby toys to fill an entire room.
Steve was originally supposed to come with us.
But the night before our planned visit, he stood in the kitchen with one hand pressed against his forehead.
“I can’t go,” he said. “I’m too far behind at work.”
“You’ve worked late every night this week,” I reminded him.
“Exactly. That’s why I need the weekend to catch up.”
I adjusted Nolan against my shoulder.
“We haven’t spent an entire weekend together in months.”
Steve’s expression immediately tightened.
“Laika, please don’t start.”
I fell silent.
That sentence had become increasingly familiar since Nolan’s birth.
“Please don’t start.”
It was his way of telling me I was being too emotional, too sensitive, too tired, or simply too difficult.
Ever since my postpartum depression diagnosis, Steve had repeatedly told me that I was becoming too much for him.
He claimed he never knew which version of me he would come home to.
So I started making myself smaller.
I stopped mentioning that he guarded his phone or immediately jumped into the shower whenever he returned home. I avoided asking where he had been or why his explanations never seemed to add up.
I wanted our relationship to survive.
Somehow, I had convinced myself that meant becoming easier to love.
On Saturday morning, Steve left for what he described as a few hours at the office.
“Have fun with your parents,” he told me.
He kissed Nolan on the head before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll call tonight.”
I packed the car and drove the two hours to my parents’ house.
The moment I walked through the door, Grace took Nolan from my arms.
“My sweet boy!” she exclaimed.
Evans looked at me for a moment before frowning.
“You look exhausted.”
“I have a baby who keeps me pretty busy,” I replied.
“You looked tired before the baby, too.”
Grace immediately shot him a warning look.
My father raised both hands defensively.
“I meant she needs some rest.”
For the first time in weeks, I actually got some.
I took a nap while my parents looked after Nolan. Later, I helped my mother prepare lunch, enjoying the ordinary comfort of being somewhere I didn’t feel constantly judged.
I was cutting tomatoes when my phone suddenly began making a strange crackling sound.
I looked down at the screen.
It was the baby monitor app.
The camera was installed in Nolan’s nursery at our house. Steve had connected it to both our phones so we could check on our son even when we were away.
At first, I assumed something had gone wrong with the connection.
Then I opened the app.
A woman was laughing.
It was a soft laugh, unusually close to the microphone.
I froze.
Grace glanced over at me.
“What is it?”
I raised one finger, silently asking her to wait.
The woman laughed again.
Then I heard Steve’s voice.
“Come on, she’s over two hours away. Stop worrying.”
My stomach tightened.
I immediately turned up the volume.
My mother’s expression changed the moment she recognized his voice.
I called Steve.
He declined the call.
I tried again.
This time, it went straight to voicemail.
Then the woman spoke.
“Are you sure she won’t come back?”
Steve chuckled.
“Trust me. We have plenty of time.”
The knife slipped from my hand and struck the cutting board.
Grace whispered my name.
I grabbed my phone and rushed into the hallway.
I called Steve three more times.
He didn’t answer.
My mind desperately searched for an innocent explanation.
Maybe she was a friend. Perhaps a coworker. Maybe someone had come over to help with something around the house.
But what innocent explanation involved a woman laughing in my bedroom while my fiancé casually reassured her that I was more than two hours away?
