Chapter 5
The house settled into a deep, heavy midnight silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic breathing of the baby in the bassinet beside the bed. Clara lay wide awake staring at the dark ceiling, her mind racing with a familiar, suffocating anxiety. Beside her, Julian slept heavily, one arm thrown across the duvet, his chest rising and falling in deep, even intervals. She slipped out from under the covers with practiced stealth, making sure not to creak the floorboards as she padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The moonlight cut through the large windows, bathing the countertops in a cool, silvery glow. Clara didn’t turn on the overhead lights. She walked straight to the refrigerator, pulled out a carton of cold water, and took a long, slow drink. As the cold liquid washed down her throat, she stared down at the exact spot on the tiled floor where the milk had spilled earlier that afternoon. It was spotless now, gleaming under the moonbeams, yet the memory of her own helplessness hung heavily in the empty room.
Footsteps padded softly down the hall, and a moment later, Julian appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his maroon t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair slightly rumpled from sleep. He didn't say anything at first; he simply walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin gently on her shoulder.
“Can’t sleep?” Julian whispered against her ear, his voice raspy with midnight fatigue.
“My head won’t turn off,” Clara replied, leaning back into his warmth. “Every time I close my eyes, I replay the whole day. Did I feed him enough? Did I hold him right? Why did I cry over milk? It’s like my brain is stuck in a loop of self-doubt.”
Julian turned her slowly in his arms so she was facing him. He cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray tear she hadn’t realized was falling. “Clara, listen to me. Postpartum depression isn’t a character flaw. It’s not something you can just logic your way out of. Tomorrow morning, we are calling Dr. Vance. We are getting you the support you deserve, not because you’re broken, but because you deserve to feel like yourself again.”
May you like
Clara looked at him, her dark eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation or disappointment. Finding only unwavering love and resolve, she let out a long, shuddering breath that felt like the first real exhale she had taken in months.
“Okay,” Clara whispered, resting her forehead against his chest. “Okay, let’s call.”
