“If you’re bleeding that badly, then put a towel under yourself and stop ruining my birthday.”
Those were the final words Tyler said before snapping his suitcase shut.
I sat beside our son’s crib with one hand gripping the railing while the other pressed against my stomach that still ached from labor. Parker had only been born eight days earlier, and every hour since then had been filled with exhaustion, pain, and fear.
But this wasn’t normal recovery anymore.
This was blood.
Too much blood.
The cream-colored rug in the nursery was already stained dark red beneath me while Parker cried softly in his bassinet nearby. The room looked peaceful, almost beautiful, which somehow made everything feel even more terrifying.
“Tyler… please,” I whispered weakly. “I need the hospital.”
He walked out of the closet adjusting his expensive sunglasses and smoothing down his fresh white shirt like he was heading to a magazine photoshoot instead of leaving his wife on the floor.
“My mother said all women bleed after childbirth,” he replied coldly. “You’re acting like you’re dying.”
“I feel dizzy,” I said. “Something’s seriously wrong.”
Tyler didn’t even come closer.
He stayed by the doorway scrolling through his phone.
“I spent thousands on this birthday weekend in the Blue Ridge Mountains,” he snapped. “Private cabin, steaks, whiskey, my friends already booked everything. I’m not canceling because you suddenly want attention.”
Attention.
That word hurt more than the cramps twisting through my body.
Parker started crying harder.
I tried turning toward him, but the room tilted violently and my legs refused to move.
“Please just call someone,” I begged. “Your mother… an ambulance… anybody.”
Tyler laughed bitterly.
“So everyone can say I abandoned my wife for my birthday? No thanks. Drink tea and calm down. My mom will check on you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll make it until tomorrow,” I whispered.
For one second, he finally looked properly at the blood soaking through the rug.
Fear flashed across his face.
But then his expression hardened again.
“You always exaggerate everything,” he muttered. “Pregnancy made you impossible.”
He walked past me toward the hallway.
I grabbed weakly at his pant leg.
“Tyler… please look at me.”
He pulled away instantly.
“Stop trying to manipulate me. I deserve one peaceful weekend.”
From the front door, he shouted one last thing:
“I’m putting my phone on airplane mode. Don’t send me dramatic messages.”
Then the door slammed shut.
A moment later, his truck disappeared down the street while I lay there bleeding beside our newborn son.
Outside, the neighborhood sounded completely normal.
Dogs barked.
Music played somewhere nearby.
A neighbor laughed outside.
Inside the nursery, I could barely breathe.
I reached desperately toward my phone sitting on the dresser, but my trembling fingers only knocked it onto the carpet beside me.
The screen lit up instantly.
Tyler had already posted on social media.
“Birthday weekend starts now. Mountains, whiskey, steaks, and zero drama.”
The photo showed his hand gripping the steering wheel while sunlight reflected off his expensive watch.
Meanwhile, I was lying on the nursery floor beside his son’s crib feeling my body growing colder by the minute.
And somehow…
the worst part of the nightmare still hadn’t happened yet.
I don’t know how long I stayed there afterward.
Minutes felt like hours.
The only thing keeping me conscious was Parker crying in the bassinet beside me.
Every time he stopped for even a second, panic ripped through me because I thought something had happened to him too.
I was terrified of dying.
But I was even more terrified of leaving my son alone in that silent house.
The blood beneath me no longer felt warm.
It felt cold.
Heavy.
Like the floor itself was trying to pull me under.
I wanted to pray for help, but my mind felt empty and broken.
The giant house Tyler had insisted on buying to impress people suddenly felt less like a home and more like a beautiful prison made of glass and marble