It never came.
Instead, fear came.
Then anger at herself for being afraid.
Then shame for wishing, even for one terrible second, that she could go back to the life she had before him.
At home, that shame grew heavier.
The baby cried at night, and Maya began to hate the sound before she even hated herself for hating it. She fed him with one hand while scrolling through photos of her friends under colorful lights on her phone. She changed him while messages appeared on the screen asking where she had gone, why she never went out anymore, why she had become so boring.
Sometimes she looked at the baby and whispered:
“You took everything away from me.”
He would only look back at her, blinking.
He had taken nothing from her.
