I sank into the couch, Emily’s cries echoing from the nursery. Three months in, and I still had no idea how moms kept it together—surviving colic, spit-up, and two-hour sleep stretches.
Peter had called earlier.
“How are my girls?” he asked.
“We’re surviving,” I said, bouncing Emily. “You’re lucky you’re not stuck here with this little tyrant.”
He laughed. “You’re doing great. Mom said she could come by tomorrow. Let her help.”
Melissa and I weren’t exactly close. She wasn’t cruel, just… judgmental. But I was desperate for rest.
“Fine,” I said. “But not too long.”
She arrived right on time, casserole in hand.
“Oh, Alicia, you look pale,” she said. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
I tried to smile. “It’s just been a lot.”
“You should’ve seen Peter as a baby,” she went on. “I never let myself get so run down.”
I handed her Emily and headed to bed, exhausted.
Hours later, I woke to Emily’s screams. My phone and the baby monitor were missing. Panic hit. I ran to her room—she was alone, in a dirty diaper.
As I changed her, I saw Melissa outside, laughing on my phone.
“Melissa!” I yelled, storming out. “Why was my daughter crying while you were out here? And why do you have my phone?”
She blinked. “Peter called. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“And the monitor?”
“I unplugged it. She wasn’t crying when I left.”
“Thirty-seven minutes!” I said. “She was alone for that long?”
“You’re overreacting,” she snapped. “Be grateful I even came.”
That was it.
“Get out,” I told her. “And don’t come back unless Peter’s home.”
She stormed off. I held Emily close, trying to shake the guilt. Did I overreact? But no—my daughter cried alone for nearly an hour.
Peter came home the next day. I told him everything.
“She meant well,” he said. “You didn’t have to kick her out.”
“You’re defending her?”
“She was trying to help.”
“By taking my phone and leaving our baby unattended?”
He sighed. “She already feels terrible. Now she might never help again.”
I turned away, hurt. He never saw my side when it came to her.
That night, I kept replaying it all. Maybe I was harsh. Maybe I burned a bridge. But deep down, I knew—my daughter deserved better.
Was I wrong?