He screamed at her in the hospital that day.
The day her new baby was born.
She was in the hospital bed running on fumes of sleep and hormones and excruciatingly sore in every conceivable place and someone made an innocent comment about, “… the next time you have a baby…”
Oh I’m never doing THAT again, she retorted, halfway joking (or maybe not at all joking; those hours after childbirth are no joke, man).
And then he screamed at her.
Because how dare she not remember her role.
He had called her fat ass when she was pregnant, and then screamed at her for not wanting to immediately have another baby. Those weren’t happy days… none of them were. Those moments when it’s supposed to be some sort of honeymoon with a tiny new infant?
Not for her.
There were no happy days, not ever.
And all these years later, it’s a trigger, seeing a young first-time mama and daddy smiling so happily in pictures with their tiny new baby, the proud daddy wrapping his strong arms around his beloved wife and their tiny new baby…
It brings tears to her eyes, even now, the feeling that there isn’t really a word for… sort of jealousy? Envy? Not really that, exactly, but maybe a little, mixed with the grief and loss or something, but it’s strong and painful.
I will never have that. I wanted that so bad, and I will never have it.
It’s the strong arms and the look of joy and love and pride on his face, every time.
If only she could go back and marry the guy with the strong arms, the one who adores and protects and provides for, who would die for his wife and baby and never yell at her in the hospital.
Leave a Reply