After we lost our baby, my husband Jake and I were drowning in a mountain of debt. I was also battling severe depression.
But Jake, he was always there for me, always protective.
He’d spend his days doing food deliveries and his nights driving for a ride-share, just scrambling to pay off what we owed.
No matter how exhausted he was, the first thing he’d do when he got home was pull me into a tight hug.
A year later, I thought I was finally recovering.
But that day, when I saw a little kid playing by the roadside, I just couldn’t stop myself from crying.
Jake, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, suddenly snapped.
“Enough! You’re not the only one who lost a child! Don’t you think I’m hurting too? Who the hell is going to care about *me*?”
He spun around and stormed out into the rain, leaving me alone in the house.
My gaze drifted to the utility knife on the windowsill.
A chilling thought crept into my mind.
Maybemaybe I should just go be with our baby.
The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drumming, like someone desperately pounding on the glass.
Jake was gone.
The door slammed shut with a sharp *bang*.
I stood frozen, the door still trembling slightly, and with it, my heart.
“Who the hell is going to care about *me*?”
His words echoed, twisting and tearing at my brain.
He was right, who *did* care about him?
To pay for my treatments, to cover the mounting bills from the baby we couldn’t keep, he worked himself to the bone, even running deliveries with a high fever.
I was nothing but a burden.
No baby, no job, and now I couldn’t even offer him comfort. All I did was make his life harder.
I turned my head, my eyes drawn to the windowsill.
There it was, the utility knife Jake used for opening packages.
The blade gleamed, an icy invitation.
Death felt good.
Once that thought surfaced, there was no suppressing it.
If I died, Jake wouldn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore.
He wouldn’t have to scrounge for leftover food to save money, wouldn’t have to plaster on a fake smile in the pouring rain, just for a few extra bucks on a delivery.
And finally, I could go be with the baby who never got to call me “Mom.”
I walked over and picked up the knife.
It was light, yet heavy as a thousand pounds.
Entering the bathroom, I locked the door behind me.
After a moment’s thought, I grabbed a towel and stuffed it under the door crack.
I didn’t want the smell of blood to escape. Jake hated the smell of blood. He’d always steer clear whenever he even saw a raw cut.
I turned on the water and sank into the tub.
The icy cold seeped into my skin, but I felt nothing. No chill at all.
I took out my phone and opened SnapChat.
At the very top, pinned to the top of my chats, was “Jake.”
The last message was from him, sent that afternoon:
“What do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick it up on my way.”
Even then, he was still trying to cheer me up.
I typed out a message:
“I’m going to a friend’s place to clear my head. Don’t look for me.”
My finger hovered over the send button for a long time.
Finally, I scheduled the message to send.
8:30 PM.
By then, he should be home.
He’d see the message, probably be a little annoyed, but also relieved.
Without having to face me, he’d finally get a good night’s sleep.
My phone lay on the sink, its screen glowing, illuminating my pale face.
I raised the knife, pressed it against my wrist, and slashed downwards.
Once. Twice. My skin peeled back, and bright red blood spurted out like a fountain.
It bloomed in the water, swirling like grotesque red flowers, shockingly vibrant.
I closed my eyes, leaning against the tub.
The warmth was slowly draining from my body.
My consciousness began to fade, and I seemed to see our baby smiling at me from the clouds, extending chubby little hands for a hug.
“My baby, Mommy’s coming,” I whispered.
Tears spilled into the bloody water.
Mommy won’t let you be alone over there anymore.
Just before darkness completely swallowed me, I heard the rain outside stop.
Good.
The rain had stopped.
And I stopped loving you.
Jake.
When I opened my eyes again, I was floating near the ceiling.
My body felt impossibly light.
I looked down and saw myself in the bathtub.
My face was ashen, lips purple, the wound on my wrist gaping.
The tub was filled with dark red water, still and silent.
I was dead.
The sensation was oddly peaceful.
From outside the door, I heard the jingle of keys.
*Click.*
The door opened.
Jake was back.
He was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his scalp, water dripping down his cheeks.
In his hand, he carried a plastic bag C takeout from that corner diner, my favorite.
He stood at the doorway, cautiously glancing into the dark apartment.
No lights were on.
He tiptoed in, changing his shoes, terrified of making a sound that might disturb me.
“Maya?”
2.
He called out, tentative.
No answer.
He sighed, probably assuming I was asleep, or still in a mood, hiding in the bedroom.
He placed the takeout on the table, shrugged off his soaked jacket, and rubbed his face.
His face was a canvas of exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot.
He walked to the bedroom door, pushed it open a crack, and peeked inside.
No one was on the bed.
He froze for a moment, then turned towards the bathroom.
The bathroom door was closed, and the light was off.
He approached, trying the doorknob.
Locked.
“Are you in there?” he asked, pressing his ear to the door. His voice was hoarse, tinged with a desperate attempt to be conciliatory.
“Still mad?”
I hovered in front of him, my heart aching as I watched his humble posture.
When Jake heard no response, he figured I was either showering or deliberately ignoring him.
He sighed, then slid down the door, sitting on the cold floor.
His pants were still wet.
He just sat there, leaning against the bathroom door.
Only that thin sheet of wood separated us.
Inside was my lifeless body. Outside, his weary back.
The boundary between life and death felt so incredibly thin.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his head bowed, his fingers tracing the grout lines between the tiles.
“I was just so tired really. Today, someone complained about a delivery, and I lost fifty bucks.”
“I was so frustrated, and then I came home and saw you crying, and I just I lost it.”
“Please, just talk to me, okay? Yell at me, hit me, whatever.”
He pulled a small, squashed box from his pocket.
Inside were a few strawberries.
They were a little bruised, but still vibrantly red.
“Look, I bought you strawberries. Not many, but they’re sweet. The owner said it was the last box.”
“Can you just open the door? Come out and have one?”
A deathly silence hung in the bathroom.
Only the occasional drip of the faucet broke it, *drip, drip*. Jake let out a bitter laugh.
“Fine, you don’t have to come out. Just listen to me talk, then.”
“We only have two hundred thousand left on the debt.”
“Just give me one more year, no, half a year. If I push hard for another six months, we can finally breathe a little.”
“Then I’ll take you traveling, anywhere you want to go.”
“And we can have another baby, okay?”
When he mentioned the baby, his voice choked.
He buried his head in his knees, his shoulders trembling slightly.
“I miss our baby too I hurt too”
“But I’m a man, I have to be strong. If I break down, what will happen to you?”
I watched him cry, wanting to reach out and stroke his hair.
My hand passed right through him, touching nothing.
You fool.
You’d be better off without me.
So much lighter.
Jake babbled on for a long time.
He talked about the past, about the future, about the child who never got to grow up.
Slowly, his voice faded.
He was so tired.
He was truly exhausted.
He just sat there, leaning against the door, knees pulled to his chest, and fell asleep.
His breathing was heavy, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
It was 8:30 PM.
My scheduled SnapChat message had just gone through.
But he was sleeping too deeply to hear it.
Dawn broke.
Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, falling directly on Jake’s face.
He frowned, then jolted awake.
His first instinct was to check the time, then he scrambled to his feet in a panic.
“Damn it, I’m going to be late!”
He frantically grabbed his jacket, about to rush out the door, when he suddenly remembered something.
He glanced back at the bathroom door.
Still closed.
He tried the bedroom door again; the covers were neatly folded, untouched.
“Maya?”
3.
He called out, puzzled.
Pulling out his phone, he finally saw the message from 9 PM last night.
“I’m going to a friend’s place to clear my head. Don’t look for me.”
Jake froze.
He stared at the screen for several seconds, his taut shoulders suddenly slumping.
Then, a bitter laugh escaped him.
“Maybe it’s for the best if she’s gone,” he muttered to himself.
“It’ll keep her from getting annoyed seeing me, and I can focus on work.”
He completely believed it.
Because in the past, when we argued, I’d sometimes crash at my best friend’s place.
He never suspected that I was just behind that door.
He walked over to the table and saw the dinner from last night.
It was completely cold, the oil congealed into white chunks, looking sickening.
But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.
He sat down and gulped down the cold noodles.
When he choked, he washed it down with cold water.
He ate quickly.
After finishing, he carefully put the crushed box of strawberries into the fridge.
He even stuck a Post-it note on the fridge door:
“Maya, strawberries are in the fridge. Remember to eat them when you get back. Don’t be mad anymore, love you.”
After all that, he put on his helmet and hurried out the door.
The apartment was empty again, save for me.
I looked at that Post-it note, my heart a tangle of emotions.
Those strawberries, I’d never get to eat them in this lifetime.
Around noon, the doorbell rang.
No one answered.
The person outside started pounding on the door.
“Maya! Open up! I know you’re in there!”
It was Jake’s mom, Mrs. Davies.
She had a spare key. When no one answered, she just let herself in.
As soon as she entered, she stood with her hands on her hips, looking around.
“Still sleeping in? Just dragging Jake down, aren’t you!”
She stormed into the bedroomempty.
Then to the kitchenempty.
Finally, she stopped at the bathroom door.
She pushed it, but it wouldn’t open.
“Still locking the door? What are you doing in there, hatching an egg?”
Mrs. Davies grumbled and cursed at the door.
“Tell me, you couldn’t even keep a baby, and now you just walk around with a dead face all day? Who are you trying to impress?”
“Jake’s buried in debt, and here you are, not even making him a meal!”
“My son is a fool, any other man would’ve divorced you by now!”
Her words were harsh, spittle flying from her mouth.
I floated in the air, watching her coldly. In the past, hearing such things would make me cry, make me feel wronged, make me feel like a sinner. Now, I just found it pathetic.
Mrs. Davies eventually tired herself out. Seeing no movement from inside, she assumed I was deliberately refusing to open the door to spite her.
“Fine, be stubborn! Just stay hidden in there forever then!”
She huffed and left.
Before she went, she even snagged that box of strawberries from the fridge.
The ones Jake had saved for me.
I wanted to stop her, but I couldn’t.
In the afternoon, Jake sent several SnapChat messages.
“Maya, are you having fun at your friend’s place?”
“What do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick you up?”
“Lots of orders today, made good money. Tonight I’ll buy you that cake you’ve wanted for ages.”
My phone was still on the bathroom sink.
The screen lit up and dimmed, over and over.
In the dimly lit bathroom, there was no one to answer.
Jake probably thought I was still angry, so he didn’t dare call, afraid of annoying me.
He sent a “pouting face” emoji.
Then he continued to weave through the city, pushing himself for those few dollars per delivery.
Night fell.
The rain started again, a soft drizzle.
Familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Quick, light.
Jake was back.
He was home earlier than usual today, carrying a fancy cake box and a bouquet of sunflowers.
The sunflowers were on sale, their petals a bit wilted, but he’d carefully arranged them to look lively.
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