She Said It's Her Bestie

On the night our child reached one hundred days, the city lay silent, with only the streetlights casting a dim, yellow glow. In the living room, Taylor Xavier sat alone on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, eyes hollowly fixed outside the window, fingers unconsciously twisting the edge of her nightgown. The air was heavy with the scent of baby milk and disinfectant, yet she was completely oblivious. I sat down beside her, holding a cup of warm milk, and spoke gently, "Taylor, postpartum depression takes time to recover. If you're too exhausted, let my mother help with the baby. It might make things easier for you." The moment I finished speaking, Taylor Xavier abruptly stood, his eyes instantly filled with anger: "How long do I have to wait? I've nearly lost my mind staying at home, watching the child cry every day, without a moment of my own space. Now, just seeing the child irritates me!" Her words pierced my heart like shards of ice. Before I could respond, she slammed the door and retreated into the bedroom. That was the first time she cited postpartum depression as a reason to go traveling. In the end, I couldn't persuade her otherwise. After repeatedly urging caution, she left—and stayed away for three days. During those three days, I fully endured the hardship of caring for the child alone. During the day, I fed the baby, changed diapers, prepared complementary food, and tidied the house; at night, the child woke frequently, and I had to get up nearly every hour to soothe him back to sleep. One night at three o'clock, the baby had a low fever. I scrambled to find the thermometer and cool him down physically. It wasn't until dawn that the fever broke. In that moment, I felt utterly helpless and longed deeply for Taylor Xavier to be by my side. When Taylor Xavier came back, I was in the kitchen cooking complementary food for the baby. She carried a brand-new suitcase, showing the new dresses inside, her cheeks flushed from the sun, her makeup immaculate, with no trace of fatigue. Without changing her shoes, she sat on the sofa scrolling through her social circle, ignoring the child's eczema and exhaustion. I asked her how the trip was and mentioned the child's fever, but she replied carelessly, "Changing the environment has really lifted my spirits; it's more comfortable than staying at home." She went on sharing amusing stories, without uttering a single word about the child. Since then, Taylor Xavier traveled more and more frequently, from two or three days to a week, half a month, and even a full month. Every time she came back, her suitcase was full of new things, yet she never cared for the house or the child. Several times, when I returned home from work, I found the child crying in the stroller while Taylor Xavier was either putting on makeup or wearing headphones on a video call, laughing brightly. The memory that stayed with me most vividly was when I worked late until past eleven and came home. As soon as I opened the door, I heard the child's heart-wrenching cries. I rushed into the bedroom; the child lay in the baby crib, his face flushed red, his throat nearly hoarse from crying, and the milk bottle was empty. Meanwhile, Taylor Xavier wore headphones as she video-called her close friend, Ryan Young, laughing happily, completely oblivious to the child.