Chapter 5
Isaac
Four days ago
I type it before I can stop myself.
I still dream about you.
The words sit there for a few minutes under Chloe’s name like a loaded gun, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for me to undo a mistake already made.
I hover over delete for a long minute before pressing delete for everyone.
I shouldn’t have written that. It sounds more intimate than I meant it to be. But …
Luna cannot stand me anymore. She doesn’t even look me in the eye.
And Chloe … she has been trying to support me, distracting me ever since Mum told her Luna has been distant recently.
Sometimes, I think it would be easier if Mum didn’t come over and spill the details of our private life into Chloe’s ear.
I know they both mean well. They are worried.
So, when Chloe told me she remembered the time when we were best friends in senior year, it just triggered something.
I had this long, vivid dream of those first months before university when I only had to worry about hanging out with my mates, sneaking a beer, and dreaming of a bright future.
At that moment, I wished I was back, that I didn’t need to worry about my wife no longer wanting me or that I had done something wrong and I had no way to make it right.
I feel so useless. So, when Chloe suggested we have a beer with friends one evening, I relented.
I needed the break. But she has been messaging me nonstop since, and I don’t know what to do about it without upsetting Mum.
Maybe that message made it worse. Maybe she didn’t see it. Guilt crawls up my throat as I remember all the reasons I divorced Chloe. Reasons Mum does not know.
I lock the phone and drop it onto the table like it’s burnt me, then lean forward and cover my face with my hands, pressing my palms hard into my eyes, as if that might undo what I’ve just done.
***
The night everything went to hell
Amelie is seven weeks old.
Seven weeks.
It feels like I’ve gained this fragile, perfect piece of joy … and lost my wife somewhere along the way.
The first fifteen days were good.
Or at least, manageable.
Paternity leave meant I could stay home, be present, learn the new normal—the diapers, the feeds, the strange, relentless cycle of night and day blurring into each other.
That first day at the hospital, things seemed to look up once Luna’s parents arrived with Lily in tow.
With Oliver and Nora there, the house felt safer, like we had a buffer.
Something changed that first day in the hospital, and I felt like I was adrift with no land in sight.
Luna smiled more while her mum was here, helping her to get around, making her favourite meals, and just pampering her.
It was not like before, but I could pretend things were okay.
I think if her parents had stayed like they had planned to, things would have been different. But Oliver and Nora had to leave after a week.
A tree fell onto the roof of their house, and the repairs couldn’t wait.
I stood there and watched Luna hold her mother tightly.
“Come back soon,” she whispered, tears shining like tiny crystals on her impossibly thick, dark lashes.
“I will,” Nora promised, also in tears. “As soon as we sort things, I will be rushing back.”
Luna didn’t let go straight away. Even when Nora pulled back, she held on just a second longer, like she wasn’t ready to lose that support yet. I don’t know why, but that stayed with me.
Since they left, the house feels … different.
Something wakes me up. I have become a light sleeper ever since I read an article on sudden infant death syndrome.
There is just the faint shift of sheets. Amelie sleeps in her little crib by the side of the bed, her little lips moving as she dreams of her next meal.
I open my eyes and see Luna.
She’s turned halfway onto her side, moving slowly, carefully, like every inch costs her, her breath tight and controlled, and I realise with a sinking heart that she’s been trying to do this without waking me.
I push myself up immediately.
“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” I murmur, already reaching for her. “Let me help.”
“No … I’ve got it,” Luna says, but her voice is stiff with strain, like she’s holding something back.
My wife hasn’t got it. I can see that much.
She pauses between movements, and her hand grips the mattress, knuckles white with strain.
I swing my legs off the bed and move around to her side.
“Luna,” I try, firmer this time. “Let me help you. What do you need?”
She hesitates for a second, as if measuring her words. This hurts my heart, that she is guarding herself against me.
“I need to pee,” she finally relents like it cost her to say that.
Fear and dismay twists in my chest. She doesn’t trust me.
“Okay,” I say quickly. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
I slide my arms under her as carefully as I can, one behind her back, the other beneath her knees, trying not to jolt her, trying not to hurt her more than she already is.
For a moment, she resists. I brace myself for her rejection.
Then relief fills me as her arms come up around my neck, her body leaning into mine, her face pressing against my neck. And I feel it—
Warm wetness against my skin.
She’s crying.
Panic hits me like a thunderbolt.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “Luna, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She shakes her head against me, her grip tightening slightly.
“I …” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I feel so useless. I hate this.”
God.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, though the words feel inadequate even as I say them. “It’s going to be alright. You’ve just had surgery, Luna. It’s—this is normal.”
I don’t know what else to do.
I don’t know what else to say. Don’t even know if this is normal.
I carry her into the bathroom, moving carefully, and set her down gently on the commode, making sure she’s steady before I let go.
She keeps her head down, shoulders curled slightly inwards.
I crouch in front of her, reaching to help with her underwear.
“Let me—”
“Stop,” she says suddenly, her voice razor-sharp in its denial.
I freeze.
“I don’t—I don’t want you to …”
There’s something in her tone that I don’t quite understand.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “It’s just me. I love you.”
She shakes her head, her hands clutching at the fabric.
“No … It’s—” Her voice wavers. “It’s so gross.”
My heart hurts.
“Luna—”
“All of it,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, thick with humiliation. “The blood … the swelling … the folds … I’m—” She swallows hard. “I’m gross. All these loose folds.”
For a second, I just squat here looking at Luna, trying to get her to meet my eyes.
I take in the woman who carried our child. Who went through surgery. Who is sitting in front of me, broken open in ways I don’t know how to fix.
“You’re not,” I say, feeling inadequate.
It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough.
“You’re not gross, Luna. You are beautiful.”
She doesn’t look at me. And I realise she doesn’t believe me.
And I don’t know how to make her.
In the end, she lets me help her because there is no other choice. As I carry her back, I realise I need help to fix this. As soon as Luna lies down, she turns to her side, away from me. I wait for her breathing to even out before I creep closer and gingerly put an arm around her.
The next day, I ask Mum to come and help.
***
Mum starts coming every day. She’s been waiting to get her hands on her only grandchild. Cooking, helping, taking Amilie when Luna needs to rest.
She is good with her granddaughter, confident and experienced.
But every time she holds Amelie, Luna changes.
It is subtle, but I start noticing it more.
The stiffness in her shoulders, which she then consciously relaxes.
I see her hands tighten into little fists, and a little crease appears on her forehead for just a minute before it smooths out.
Her eyes follow every movement.
She is unable to fully relax, like something in her won’t let go.
Once, when my mum took Amelie into the other room, Luna got up almost immediately to follow, moving faster than I’ve seen her move since the surgery, wincing but not stopping.
“I’ll just—check,” she says as if to explain.
My wife doesn’t look at me.
***
Mum senses the distance, and I can see she is unhappy. Luna doesn’t want her here. I ask her what has changed, and finally, Luna mumbles something about her bringing Chloe to the hospital.
I tell her that Mum meant well. But that only makes Luna quieter.
“Let me help,” I say every chance I get.
“I’ve got it,” she always replies.
Always the same.
I stay close anyway—bringing her water, reminding her to drink, making sure she eats.
“You need fluids,” I say, placing the glass in her hand.
“I know,” she answers, taking it without really looking at me.
There are times when she seems … here. And then others where she drifts, like she is present, but not quite connected, her attention slipping away even mid-conversation, her responses taking a little too long, like she has to pull herself back to the moment.
***
At night, it is worse.
She sits up suddenly, checking Amelie again and again, even when she is asleep, even when nothing is wrong.
“Is she breathing?” she whispers.
“She’s fine,” I say, guiding her back down.
But she lies awake, and I stay up with her.
We learn everything together. Or try to.
The mechanics of it—feeding, changing, settling—we manage.
But coping with the new normal?
That feels like swimming in unfamiliar waters. I took my wife to the hospital, and I have returned with a different person. It feels like we are both standing in the same room, but experiencing entirely different realities.
She forgets where she puts things. Starts doing something and then stops halfway, like she’s lost track of what she is doing.
Sometimes, she’ll just sit here, staring at Amelie, her expression far away.
Other times, she’ll cry suddenly, turning away like she doesn’t want me to see.
I don’t know what to call it.
I don’t know if this is normal.
If this is just … adjustment? Hormones? Exhaustion?
I try to convince myself it will pass.
Things will get better, and I will have my Luna back.
So here I am, looking through the latest project plans without registering a thing. I must have drifted off at my desk.
I jump when my phone shrills next to my ear. Groggily, I look at the time … 8.00 p.m. … FUCK …
Lily is calling me. Why is Lily calling me at this time?