One Week Postpartum, Betrayed by My Husband

"Cammy, what's with the attitude?" Mark's voice was sharp and reprimanding

I glanced at him coldly, my voice calm. "I'm going to feed the baby first."

Mark froze, his mouth opening slightly as if to speak, but no words came out.

I didn't bother with him—what was the point? We were already heading for a divorce. My only concern now was my baby boy.

Pushing open the door to the nursery, I saw my son lying in his tiny bed, mouth open, crying so hard he was nearly choking. He must have been starving.

My chest tightened, and I hurried over to pick him up.

Mark followed me in, his expression turning awkward. The smell of alcohol on him hit me like a slap, and anger surged to my temples.

"Mark, you've stuffed yourself full, but it's been four hours. The formula is right there in the cabinet—couldn't you feed him even once?"

"Cammy, don't talk to me like some shrew!" He shot back indignantly. "Everyone knows breast milk is best for babies. You ran off and left him—how do you still have the nerve to blame me?"

"And what about his diaper?" I snapped, my voice rising. "You're his father. When I'm not here, you can't even bother to change one diaper?"

His eyes drifted reluctantly to the soiled diaper on our son. Disgust flickered across his face as if he'd just noticed how filthy it was.

"I'm a man. How would I know how to do that? You're the mother—that's your job. Stop looking for excuses to blame others."

His words stunned me, leaving me shaken and filled with regret.

I remembered his promises so clearly when we were trying for a baby. He'd bring me carefully compiled guides he found online, excitedly discussing how to prepare nutritious meals for the baby.

At the baby store, he'd hold up tiny clothes to make me laugh and point to diapers, vowing to take on every task of childcare.

He even insisted on trying a labor simulation machine despite my protests, saying he wanted to experience every ounce of pain I'd go through.

But once our baby was born, everything changed.

He'd shove our crying boy into my arms with irritation, complaining that the noise kept him from sleeping.

I had spent over ten grueling hours in the delivery room, teetering on the edge of life and death, enduring the agony of an emergency C-section after a failed natural birth. Yet, even with my wound still seeping pus, I found myself cradling and nursing our child.

My chest tightened, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Pride held them back.

My son was still crying in my arms, his tiny face scrunched in hunger.

I undid my blouse, letting him feed. Slowly, the cries subsided. He latched on, sucking intently, his little mouth busy as he filled his empty stomach.

Mark finally smiled, looking pleased with himself. He stepped behind me and began gathering my messy hair into place.

"Look how much our son loves you," he said. "He was crying for you the whole time you were gone."

I patted our son's back gently to help him drink more comfortably. "You only know how to sweet-talk. Just because our son cries doesn't mean he's looking for me. Maybe he was searching for you, his father."

Mark had tied my hair into a loose knot. Hearing my comment, he laughed smugly.

"I'm his dad—I know exactly what he's thinking," he said, grinning. "He wants me to work hard and earn money to take care of you two so you can live nicely."

I knew he was saying all this to keep me in my role as the dutiful wife and mother. Yet, in this moment, his words and actions created the fleeting illusion of a loving, ordinary family of three.

Somehow, my feelings of frustration and grievance began to ease.

Then the door creaked open, and a soft, coquettish voice floated in.

"Mark, this dress is too tight in the chest. Do you have another one?"