Last night, everything exploded. Exhausted after hours of breastfeeding, I left the bedroom hoping to find some comfort. Nothing. Just my mother-in-law’s icy stare and my husband’s indifference. “I thought you weren’t hungry,” she snapped. A banal sentence, but sharp as a blade. It was too much. My silence, until then docile, shattered into a thousand pieces.
The argument was violent, brutal. My husband, as if hypnotized by the role of the good son, sided with his mother. And as if all that wasn’t enough, he asked me to do the dishes. I was on the verge of collapse. So, I made a radical decision: I gathered a few things, took my son, and left.
At my mother’s, I found the comfort I had hoped for. Warmth, tenderness, and above all… benevolent silence. But even there, the turmoil didn’t cease. My phone vibrated incessantly: calls, accusatory messages from my husband. According to him, I had overreacted, broken up the family over a “ridiculous” thing. He hadn’t understood anything. Or perhaps he refused to see.
