Page 1 of All the Forbidden Things
Max
I’m dragged from sleep bythe shrill, intense sound of my daughter crying. I need to react. I need to wake up. But I’m so tired, so utterly exhausted that I lie completely still as my brain attempts to force me into action, battling with my body, which refuses to cooperate. And, because I consider myself a responsible parent, my brain wins the battle and I open my eyes.
My four-week-old daughter stares back at me. She’s silent for a few seconds as she sucks on her tiny fist, but then her face scrunches, her knees pull up towards her little belly, and she begins to scream again. Everything in me, every emotion, need, want, every desire to protect this tiny, helpless part of me, rushes to the surface, and as it does each and every time I look at, think about, or hear her, I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the responsibility of fatherhood.
“Hey, hey, baby girl. What’s all this noise about?” I coo softly to her, lifting her into my arms as I sit myself up.
She draws in small shuddering breaths, but at least she quiets for a minute.
I stand and make my way down to the kitchen. One-handedly, I fill and flick on the kettle and set about making a bottle for Layla, which she won’t be happy about. Since she had only ever been breastfed, she wasn’t a fan of the formula we’d purchased as an emergency backup. But once the two bottles of expressed milk my wife had left in the fridge had been consumed, what choice did I have other than to give her formula?
While I wait on the kettle to boil the water for her bottles, I grab a towel, baby wipes and a nappy from the laundry room then spread the towel on the kitchen table and gently lay my daughter on top of it. The screaming resumes instantly, and she pulls her knees to her chest as she cries around the fist she again attempts to force into her mouth.
“I’ll be quick, baby girl. I promise I’ll be quick, but we need to get your bum changed and a nice clean nappy on you.”
Tear's puddle around her eyes before running back to collect by her ears and then drop onto the clean towel I laid down, and it actually hurts my heart to trace their fall with my eyes. I know she’s not in any kind of pain or danger. She’s safe, warm, and just a little hungry, but my reaction to seeing and hearing my daughter cry is visceral.
I un-pop her babygro, releasing her legs, and then do the same to the vest she wears beneath it. Luckily, the nappy is only a little damp, so the clean-up and swap to a fresh one take just seconds.
I sing to my baby girl as I work. It’s something I’ve done since the moment we knew she’d been conceived. It’s something I continued to do after she was born, and it usually silences and settles her. Not this morning, though. This morning, she prefers the sound of her own voice to mine and persists in screaming at the top of her lungs, letting the whole fucking world know Daddy’s late with her breakfast.
“No? Daddy’s songs not doing it for you today?” I question, and instead, I start to slowly and softly sing the chorus from the first song I learned to play on guitar, the song I named my daughter after, Layla.
Once I have her babygro back in place, I lift and hold her out in front of me while singing about how she’s got me on my knees.
Finally, the tears stop, but her bottom lip still trembles as she continues to draw in short, shuddering breaths, and I can’t keep her at arm's length for a second longer. I once again pull her against my chest, where she attempts to suckle on my shoulder.
“Yuck, baby girl. That can’t taste good.”
Undeterred by my protest, Layla continues her effort to latch on to my shoulder. She’s quiet, so I leave her to it while I retrieve a half-dozen empty bottles from the steriliser and proceed to make enough to get us through the day, or at least until Whitney gets home.
Despite her earlier protests, Layla only finishes three-quarters of her bottle before giving a loud burp and crashing back onto my shoulder. I settle Layla in her crib, which I moved to my side of the bed last night, and take the opportunity to jump in the shower.
I check my phone as I head towards our en suite just in case I’ve missed a call or text from Whit. My wife didn’t enjoy being pregnant and, so far, she doesn’t appear to be loving motherhood either. When she’d first started to withdraw from me, I’d put it down to pregnancy hormones and did everything I could think of to be there for her. I’d cancelled all public appearances, interviews, and photoshoots with the band, and I’d told our label and management team I was taking a year off, maybe longer.
Even after that, her attitude remained complacent, and when Layla was born, she was as indifferent towards her as she was me.
Yesterday, Whitney woke me early and said she was spending the day at Yatra, her favourite spa and health resort. I’d been so worried that she was slipping into some kind of postpartum depression that it was a relief that she was finally showing some interest in something. She has barely left the house since Layla had been born; neither of us has. But it isn’t because she’s been too wrapped up in our newborn and enjoying spending time with Layla or me.
Whitney held Layla when she fed her. She bathed her, clothed her, and changed her nappy, but between each of those times, she retreated into another room, any room that was away from us.
I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to leave my little girl's side, and I rarely put her down. I was besotted, obsessed, and totally and utterly floored by the love I felt for this tiny human.
I expected Whitney home by the afternoon, evening at the very latest. So, when she texted to say she needed some alone time and was staying the night, I’d called her. She assured me she was okay, just chilled and relaxed from her day of pampering and not feeling awake enough to drive home. I offered to collect her or send a car, which she declined, saying that a good night’s sleep would have her feeling refreshed and more like herself.
I agreed. Despite knowing she was lying, I agreed.
I agreed because I wanted Whitney to be happy. I wanted her to love me again like she had in the beginning. I wanted her to enjoy every moment of our daughter’s first weeks of life and be content with the family we were creating. I wanted her to want more babies.Mybabies. But before she’d even made that call, before she’d woken me yesterday morning to tell me she was going to the spa, perhaps even before our daughter was born, and probably even before I’d surprised her by arranging our drive-through wedding in Vegas eight months ago, I knew.
My heart and my stomach ached with the knowledge that something was wrong.
That I’d failed.
Despite taking the baby monitor into the bathroom with me, as soon as I’m showered, I wrap a towel around my waist, and with my hair and body still dripping wet, I step into the bedroom to check on Layla.
I come to a stop the instant I see Whitney standing beside our daughter's crib. My gut pulls tight, and my heart bounces off my ribcage as I watch her long, slender fingers brush gently over Layla’s dark head of hair. It’s been so long since those fingers have touched me with the slightest semblance of affection.
What have I done to make her fall out of love with me so thoroughly?
