Page 9 of Sparrow

2015

I CAN HEARthe crying before I even open the door. I slip the key into the lock, turn it, and push it open, only to be met with an even louder cry.

This is becoming an everyday occurrence.

I wake at five o’clock in the morning, shower, feed my six-month-old daughter breakfast, wake Laura so she can be there for Cadence, kiss them both goodbye, spend ten hours or more working at Kane Security installing home security systems, and come home to find Cadence sitting in her crib—screaming and crying—while Laura just sits at the kitchen table as if she hears nothing.

I have spent six months trying to be patient. Six months trying to understand how a mother can just reject her own child. I’ve talked to her doctors. I’ve talked to my mother. They all say the same thing.

Give her time. Try this medication. Try therapy. Just be patient. It will pass.

Well, it hasn’t and my patience is slipping.

“Laura,” I say her name a little louder than I should, but she doesn’t budge, so I say it louder still, “Laura!”

She startles and her eyes grow wide.

“What?” she asks, as if she can’t hear our child screaming at the top of her lungs.

My temper shatters into a million pieces.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? Are you fucking JOKING?” I shout then go upstairs to check on the baby.

She’s red-faced and sweaty. She’s been screaming for a while. It’s a reality that breaks my heart.

I gather her into my arms to assess whether or not she’s hurt or just hungry and upset. I check her body. She’s uninjured, but her diaper needs changing and she clearly needs to eat.

I take a breath, trying to remain calm so I can focus on her.

I take some time to change her, cuddle with her, show her love and affection, then I feed her, ignoring her mother the entire time because if I speak, I’ll snap.

Something has to change. Something has to give.

I spend a few hours with my daughter and attempt to gather my thoughts. I don’t want to attack, Laura. It’s not fair. She’s broken mentally. Postpartum depression, the doctors called it, and they said it can vary from mother to mother. Sometimes it’s nonexistent, sometimes it’s very brief, but sometimes it is something they struggle with forever. I fear we are looking at the latter.

After Cadence is long asleep and safe in her room, I shove my hands in my pockets and step into the living room where Laura is currently sitting, scrolling through her phone.

“What has gotten into you, Laura? I don’t even know who you are anymore,” I state in a calm, even voice.

“What has gotten into me? What has gotten into YOU?” Her tone is angry and accusatory.

“ME? You’re asking what’s gotten into me? Shall we list all the things? My girlfriend, the mother of my only child, couldn’t give a fuck that she is neglecting our daughter. She doesn’t leave the house. She doesn’t sleep in our bedroom anymore. She hasn’t let me touch her since Cadence was born. She spends all day, every day, staring at the goddamn wall, while I leave the house and work my ass off for this family. That, Laura, is what the FUCK is the matter with me.” My chest is heaving. Fury is pumping through my veins.

“Maybe I’m just not happy with you anymore, Grayson. Maybe I never wanted a kid. Maybe I just wanted you and got way more than I bargained for when I got pregnant. Did you ever think of that?” She stands to face me.

“Every day. I think that every goddamn day and just pray that I’m wrong.”

“Well...you’re not. This isn’t the life I wanted. I got swept away in you. You were a bad boy with a shattered past and tattoos. I was enthralled. Add in the fact that you fucked like a champ and I was a goner.”

I don’t even know the woman speaking to me right now. This isn’t the woman I love.

“Who are you, Laura? Where is the woman I met three years ago? The woman I trusted and let in? The woman who made me happy when I hadn’t felt happy in years?”

“She disappeared a long time ago. The minute you made me have that baby instead of handling it myself, like I wanted in the first place.”

I don’t immediately understand what she is saying because the thought of that is too horrible to consider. I pause a beat, letting it sink in and then...I finally snap.

“Get OUT! Get the fuck out of my house!” I am shaking from head to toe, trembling with an anger I can’t even begin to describe. I’m sick of trying. I’m done. I’m done with her. I’m done with this relationship. It’s over. It’s been over.

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