Page 51 of Insidious

The words had hit the target I meant them to. His eyes were bleak with pain, and I … I didn’t feel any better for hurting him. But hurt people hurt people.

There was a moment of silence while Mum and Dad tried to read the tension in the room, and then he just nodded. “Fine.”

Just like that. No argument. No pushback. And that almost enraged me into throwing another pillow at his stupid, stupid face. I wanted to claw at him. I wanted to see him bleed, like I am bleeding inside. Why should I be miserable alone?

Mum had raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at that, her gaze moving between us, sharp and assessing, and I just shook my head slightly and mouthed, “Later.” She didn’t press, just turning her attention back to Amelie, fussing over her in that Mum way she has. Having her there was like a weight off my shoulders.

And Isaac left. That’s what he does, I thought bitterly—and not very reasonably. Yes, run back to mummy.

Lily is watching me now, too perceptive, as always. “You’re thinking about murdering your husband,” she says.

“I’m thinking about the logistics of moving his body,” I correct.

She gives me a look that says she has an unmarked van that we can use. And I can only smile at that before my expression turns grim.

Sandra’s words echo in my head. Discharge planning. Support in place.

I am going to have regular visits from the health visitor, follow-up from the perinatal mental health team, community psychiatric nurse check-ins, and access to a mother-and-baby support service if needed. There’s even talk of a postnatal support worker dropping in to help with routines, feeding, and making sure I don’t slip back into that dark place again.

But then there’s social services. They came for a chat. The lady in a suit asked her questions and took notes without giving anything away. But I knew what they were thinking, even when everyone told me they wouldn’t take my child away.

Child at risk.

The words had hovered, unspoken.

In the end, they were satisfied with the doctor’s reports, the plan, and the fact that Isaac is present, involved, and steady.

They are happy to keep an eye on things, and I can’t rock that boat. I can’t lose Amelie.

Because one thing was crystal clear: without Isaac, things could get complicated.

Lily drops into the chair beside my bed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Alright,” she says. “Start talking.”

I look at her. This time, I don’t deflect.

“Things are not okay,” I finally say.

She nods once.

“I know that.”

Lily sits forward, studying me, but before she can speak, the door opens again, and Mum walks in, carrying Amelie. She takes one look at my face, then at Lily, and sighs softly as she settles into the chair.

“I thought I’d catch you before I go,” she says, adjusting the blanket around Amelie. “And before this one”—she nods at Lily—“starts analysing you.”

“I don’t analyse,” she mutters. Lily works part-time as a clinical psychologist for the NHS. She moonlights for corporations, and she charges them her weight in gold.

“You absolutely do,” Mum replies without missing a beat, with all the ease of the woman who always packed an extra meal for Lily while we were in school. Then she turns to me. “Do you want me to stay?”

I nod wordlessly. It takes me a minute to get my thoughts in line. And once I start, I can’t stop. Between ugly, broken sobs, I finish telling them everything, every fractured piece of it—the hospital, the messages, what the doctor explained, what social services said, what Isaac confessed. By the end, I can’t stop crying.

Mum is the first to move. Her arm comes around me, and she pulls me into a hug, rubbing my back, whispering for me to let it out. Finally, she draws back and brushes the tears away from under my eyes. Her own are also shiny.

“Baby, I am so sorry … I don’t know how things are going to go between you and Isaac, but I do know men.” She pauses, choosing her words. “Your father was an idiot. Years ago, he started spending more time talking to that Heather from the reception at the garage. Nothing happened, but I could see where it was going. And I had to tell him that I didn’t like it and that it felt like he was giving something to her that belonged to me.”

I look at her, surprised.

“And what did he say?” I ask, sniffing.