After I Died, He Followed

Summary

Postpartum depression engulfed me. All I wanted was to die.

Eddy pulled me back from the edge, crying, “I’ll get you through this, Annie.”

He worked days hunting killers and nights feeding our son. Every morning he drove me to therapy, his eyes hollow from exhaustion, but he never quit.

One evening he came home to the baby screaming. I was in the corner, cutting my arm with a knife.

He slapped me hard. “If you can’t be a mother, why have him?” he shouted. “You want to die? Here—”

He pressed his service pistol under my chin.