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Amy would pop onto the video call for just a few seconds, her lips dry, her eyes heavy as if she were constantly fighting off sleep.
“Why does she look so incredibly exhausted, Mom?” I asked during one of those tense, grainy calls.
“She just went through labor, Mark, and did you really expect her to be up dancing around the living room like she’s on a holiday?” my mother snapped back.
In the background, I could hear Karen laughing loudly at some joke I couldn’t hear.
“Your wife is honestly so dramatic, because everyone has babies, and she acts like she’s the first woman in history to do it,” my sister shouted, not caring if Amy heard her.
Something deep in my gut began to twist, a dark feeling of unease that I couldn’t quite shake off.
But I was a fool, and I believed them because I wanted to believe that family wouldn’t lie to me.
On the fourth day, I wrapped up the inventory count early and decided to surprise them by taking an early bus home, carrying a small blue bracelet for Sam and a box of fancy truffles that Amy loved more than anything.
I pulled into the driveway well before dawn, the streets completely silent and empty.
The front door of our apartment wasn’t even clicked shut, standing slightly ajar as if someone had just walked out in a hurry.
When I stepped inside, the living room was freezing because someone had cranked the portable AC unit to the lowest possible setting, and there sat my mother and Karen, fast asleep on the couch buried under a mountain of thick quilts.
Pizza boxes were scattered everywhere, along with empty soda cans and half-eaten bags of chips, creating a layer of filth that made my skin crawl.
There was no sign of hot broth, no clean laundry, and certainly no warmth for the baby.
Then I heard it, a sound that cut through my heart like a serrated blade.
It was a cry, but it was thin, dry, and jagged, the sound of a baby who had spent hours screaming for help until his lungs were raw and his energy was completely spent.
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