Chapter 4: Broken Promises

When we got home, my mother-in-law was on the couch holding my daughter, looking annoyed. Derek said he had work to do and headed straight up to his home office.

The house smelled like fried chicken and baby wipes. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Thompson, cradled Maddie in one arm and the TV remote in the other, a frown etched deep on her face. Derek barely paused at the door, muttering a tired hello before making a beeline upstairs. The familiar creak of his office chair echoed down the hall.

She watched him disappear and turned to me.

She gave me that look—half accusation, half martyrdom—her lips pursed tight. I could almost hear her gearing up for a speech.

"Aubrey, you’re a mom now, and Maddie only wants you. You know, Aubrey, Maddie’s only little once. Don’t you think she needs her mom around more? How can you come back as late as Derek!"

She raised her voice, pointedly ignoring the fact that Derek had just walked in behind me. Her words stung, but I’d heard them a hundred times before, always framed as concern but laced with judgment.

My sister-in-law was sprawled on the recliner playing games.

Jessica lounged with her feet up, thumbs flying across her phone screen. She didn’t bother looking up, but the smirk in her voice carried just fine.

"Aubrey, those clothes are way too tight—you look huge!" She prided herself on being blunt, always saying the first thing that popped into her head.

Her boyfriend’s laughter echoed in the background, tinny through her speaker. I rolled my eyes, too tired to fire back.

My daughter saw me and started wailing, arms and legs flailing.

Maddie’s face crumpled, and she launched into a full meltdown. I reached for her, feeling the weight of the day settle onto my shoulders. Her little fists beat against my chest as I picked her up, her cries echoing through the house.

"Mama, milk! Milk!"

She clung to me like a lifeline, rooting for comfort. The exhaustion in her voice matched my own, and for a moment, it was just the two of us in the world.

I ignored everything else, scooped up my daughter, and went upstairs to nurse her.

The room was dim and quiet, the only sound Maddie’s soft gulps as she nursed. I stroked her hair, breathing in the baby shampoo, letting the outside noise fade away. My back ached, but I held her close, feeling her heartbeat slow against mine.

When she finally fell asleep, the nanny came in with a bowl of chicken soup, fat floating on top.

Carol hovered in the doorway, her face unreadable. The soup sloshed in the bowl, a greasy film glistening under the bedside lamp. The smell—overcooked chicken, too much salt—made my stomach churn.

The smell made me gag.

I turned my head, pressing my nose into Maddie’s blanket. Even before pregnancy, the scent of boiled chicken had made me queasy. Tonight it was worse, thick and cloying.

"Take it away. I can’t drink it tonight."

My voice was hoarse, brittle. I tried to sound firm, but Carol just stared, unmoved.

The nanny’s face was blank.

She set the bowl on the dresser, her lips pursed in silent protest. We both knew the script.

"That’s what Mrs. Thompson ordered. If you don’t drink it, I’ll have to tell her."

Her words carried more threat than concern. In this house, food was a battleground—one I rarely won.

I didn’t argue.

The fight wasn’t worth it. I gave in with a sigh, letting Carol leave without another word.

My mother-in-law insisted on breastfeeding until two, and made me drink all kinds of bland, salty-less soups every day—said it was best for the baby.

She believed in old-school remedies—bone broths, herbal teas, "cleansing" soups. I’d read every parenting blog under the sun, but arguing with her was like shouting into the wind.

I’d refused a few times, and she’d guilted me for weeks. Eventually, just hearing her start in gave me migraines.

One time, she’d followed me from room to room, lecturing about "sacrifice" and "real motherhood." The tension knotted in my temples, making my vision blur.

Migraines were worse.

The last one left me curled up in the closet, lights off, Maddie wailing outside the door. I’d have eaten ten bowls of soup just to avoid that pain.

I pinched my nose and finished the soup, choking down the chicken like medicine, eating more than half before the nanny finally took the bowl away.

It went down like glue. I forced each spoonful past the lump in my throat, my jaw aching from the effort. When I finished, I pushed the bowl away and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me.

That night, I woke up with stomach pain. I wanted to ask Derek for help, but the bed was empty.

The ache gnawed at my side, sharp and persistent. I reached for Derek instinctively, but found only cold sheets. My heart pounded with a different kind of hurt—loneliness.

He was out on the balcony, smoking, his figure silhouetted against the city lights.

I padded to the window, peeking through the blinds. The city stretched out beyond our backyard, the skyline twinkling in the distance. Derek stood on the balcony, shoulders hunched, lost in his own storm cloud of thoughts.

He stared into the night, lost in thought.

His cigarette burned bright in the darkness, the tip glowing red with every drag. I watched him for a long time, waiting for him to come back inside.