For a moment, Maya looked as though she was about to cry.
Then her phone vibrated.
The softness disappeared from her face.
“You don’t know what it feels like to live my life,” she said, and walked away.
By Friday, Maya had convinced herself that everyone was against her. Her mother called too often. Mrs. Linda watched too closely. The baby cried too much. The walls felt too narrow. Every bottle, every diaper, every sleepless hour seemed like proof that her youth had been stolen from her.
Then the message from her friends arrived.
A house by the lake outside the city.
Three days.
Music, drinks, boys, no responsibilities.
One of them wrote:
“Girl, you need to get your life back.”
Maya read that sentence while standing beside the crib.
Her son was sleeping in a yellow onesie with tiny white clouds. One sock had slipped off his foot and rested near the edge of the blanket. His fingers were curled near his cheek, and his mouth moved gently in his sleep.
He looked peaceful.
He looked safe.
He looked as though he trusted the world.
That trust should have broken her.
Instead, Maya allowed herself to believe a lie, because that lie made it possible to leave.
She told herself that newborns slept most of the time. She told herself that the bottles would be there. She told herself she would only be gone for a little while, even though the bag on the bed was packed for three days. She told herself that all mothers needed breaks, as if a break meant locking a helpless baby inside an apartment and driving away.
She placed two bottles beside the crib.
Then she added another, as if more bottles could turn abandonment into care.
She folded a blanket over the edge. She checked her makeup in the hallway mirror. She picked up her phone. Outside, a car honked once, then again.
Her friends were waiting for her.
Maya kept her hand on the door handle and looked back into the apartment. The crib was partially visible through the bedroom doorway. For one final second, the choice was still in front of her.
She could knock on Mrs. Linda’s door.
She could call her mother.
She could admit that she was drowning and needed help.
But asking for help would have meant being honest.
