Rotting in the Mud

Summary

The birth of his son fractured something in me. They called it postpartum depression—a sterile name for the suffocating darkness that swallowed me whole. Many nights, I’d stand at the open window, pulled by the empty air, and every time, he’d drag me back. “It’s okay,” he’d whisper. “We’re here. We won’t leave you.”

For three years, I fought not to hurt anyone. Until our son’s hungry screams echoed my failure, and I hid in the bathroom, swallowing sleeping pills.

That day, his last thread of patience snapped.