CHAPTER SIX
1917 Words
THE WEIGHT OF LOVE (POSTPARTUM ANXIETY)
The rain tapped gently against the windows that morning, a steady rhythm of peace.
Chloe sat by the nursery window, her robe loose around her shoulders, her arms wrapped securely around Ethan.
He was only 21 days old, but she already couldn’t remember what life was like without his tiny heartbeat nestled against her chest.
The house was quiet, unusually so.
Storm had tiptoed into the nursery earlier, planted a kiss on Ethan’s forehead, and tiptoed right back out with her sketchpad.
Michael had gone downstairs to take a call, but not before checking in three times, reminding Chloe not to stand for too long.
Her heart was full, but her body was still catching up. The aches, the swelling, the blurry days of little sleep, no one had warned her how much strength love would demand.
Still, she smiled.
This was the weight of love.
Michael returned a few minutes later, holding two mugs of tea. He set one on the windowsill, then crouched beside her, watching Ethan with a reverence that made her breath hitch.
“He looks just like you,” he whispered.
“He has your eyes,” Chloe whispered back.
Michael reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” she admitted. “But happy. Scared, too. Sometimes I look at him and wonder how we’ll protect something so small in a world so… big.”
Michael took her hand. “We protect him by protecting you. I can’t promise the world, but I can promise you’ll never walk it alone.”
She looked down at their joined hands. “You’re not afraid?”
“I’m terrified,” he said with a soft chuckle. “But I’ve never felt this kind of joy before. Like… holding you both feels more real than anything I’ve ever built in my life.”
Later that afternoon, Storm brought her newest drawing into the room. She held it behind her back, cheeks puffed like she was keeping a delicious secret.
“Storm, what have you done this time?” Chloe asked, raising a brow.
Storm giggled. “I drew Ethan. But not like a baby. I drew what he’ll look like when he’s older.”
Chloe and Michael exchanged a look. “Let’s see it,” Michael said gently.
Storm revealed the picture, and Chloe gasped.
The boy in the drawing had Ethan’s features, but older, maybe seven or eight years old standing in a golden field, one hand holding Storm’s, the other touching what looked like… a cat.
“What is this?” Chloe asked.
“I don’t know,” Storm said, frowning. “It just came to me in my sleep. I woke up, and I had to draw it before I forgot. But I think Ethan is special. Like, not just cute-baby special. I think he’s meant for something.”
Michael looked at Chloe slowly. “Do you think... it’s like your mother’s gift passed through storm, and now…?”
Chloe stared at the drawing again.
A chill passed through her. But she smiled. “Whatever it is… we’ll be ready.”
Michael nodded. “Together.”
Later that night, as the baby slept between them in a soft, moonlit crib, Michael whispered, “Do you think we’ll be good parents?”
Chloe leaned her head on his chest. “We already are.”
The following morning.
Storm had slept in later than usual, curled up beside one of her stuffed animals with her sketchpad still open beside her.
The drawing from the night before, Ethan as a grown boy, holding a cat still sat on the dresser. Chloe had meant to put it away, but something about it made her pause every time she walked past.
She stared at it now, a soft crease forming between her brows.
Was it just a child’s imagination?
Or… something more?
Downstairs, Michael had already brewed coffee and left her favorite breakfast on a tray beside the bed, buttered croissants, apple slices, and a soft-boiled egg. A tiny folded note was tucked under the saucer.
"For the queen of my life. Rest today. I’ve cancelled all meetings. I just want to be near you. Love, Michael."
Chloe smiled. She picked up the tray, sat on the edge of the bed, and ate in silence, her eyes occasionally darting to the crib where Ethan stirred in his sleep, tiny hands balled into fists.
Then, for a reason she couldn’t explain, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Not from sadness. From something else.
Something deeper.
She placed the tray aside and picked up Ethan. His warmth immediately calmed her, but the tear had already fallen, and her chest ached with a pressure she couldn’t name.
She rocked gently, whispering soft lullabies, but her mind was far away, somewhere between the past and the future.
That evening, Mr. Donald called.
Chloe answered quickly, eager to hear her father’s voice.
“How are you holding up, my princess?”
“I’m fine, Papa. Just tired, but happy.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about your mother these past few days.”
Chloe grew still. “Me too.”
“She would’ve loved to hold Ethan. She always wanted a grandson… I see so much of her in you, Chloe. Especially now.”
There was a pause.
“She used to get those feelings,” Mr. Donald added softly. “Before something happened, good or bad. Like a small wave would pass through her. You remember?”
Chloe nodded slowly. “Yes… I remember.”
“I’m not saying it means anything. But if you ever feel it again, trust your instincts, sweetheart. Just like she did.”
After the call, Chloe sat in the nursery, the air around her oddly cool despite the evening warmth. She swore the lamp flickered once, then settled.
She whispered aloud, “Mama… are you still watching us?”
A soft breeze passed through the room, ruffling the curtains.
And for a brief moment, she swore she could smell jasmine, her mother’s scent.
Michael returned to the room, a book in his hand. “Hey, are you okay?”
Chloe turned, blinking quickly. “Yes… yes. Just thinking.”
He sat beside her, pulling her close. “Tell me.”
She hesitated, then whispered, “Do you believe the dead can watch over us?”
Michael didn’t answer right away. He wrapped his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“I believe love never leaves. Not really.”
They sat in silence, the three of them, mother, father and child wrapped in something warm and invisible.
It began with small things.
The way Chloe would check Ethan’s breathing four times in a minute. The way she wouldn’t leave his side not even to bathe, not even when her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
The live-in nurse, a warm older woman with years of experience, had offered gently, “Ma’am, please. Just thirty minutes. You need rest. I’ll stay right here in the room.”
Chloe had smiled politely.
Then locked the nursery door behind her.
She didn’t trust them fully. Not with her baby.
Even though Michael had hired the best. Even though the house was constantly glowing with the quiet efficiency of staff who moved like clockwork.
Chloe still watched every hand that reached for her child like it was made of glass.
It wasn’t about control. It was fear.
Deep, coiled, choking fear.
What if they dropped him? What if he cried and no one heard? What if someone else comforted him better than she could?
What if… she failed?
Michael noticed.
He always noticed.
He didn’t say anything at first, and didn't want to overwhelm her. But the night he found her crying on the bathroom floor with Ethan pressed to her chest, still in his swaddle, he couldn’t stay silent.
“Chloe,” he said softly, kneeling beside her. “My love. What’s happening?”
She looked up, cheeks wet, eyes wild and ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Michael. I can’t let him go. I can’t even sleep because what if I wake up and he’s not breathing? What if something happens and I miss it?”
He gently took her hand, not trying to take Ethan, not trying to fix it, just holding her.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “You don’t have to carry this weight all by yourself.”
Her voice cracked. “I feel like I’m losing myself. I’m scared all the time. Even when everything’s perfect, I’m scared.”
He kissed her hand. “You’re not broken, Chloe. You’re a mother. And being afraid doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Later that night, he cancelled all his meetings for the week.
He turned off his phone.
He lay beside her on the bed with Ethan between them and whispered, “We’ll figure this out together. No nurses, no staff just you and me. For as long as you need.”
Chloe stared at him. “But your work… your company…”
“You and Ethan are my life now. The rest can wait.”
And for the first time in days, she let go just a little.
She handed Ethan to Michael, her fingers trembling, her breath unsteady.
Michael held his son carefully, gently, like he was made of starlight. “Look at us,” he whispered to the baby. “You have no idea how lucky we are. Your mom is magic.”
Chloe cried again but this time, it wasn’t from fear.
It was love.
The kind that held you, even when you felt like falling apart.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
And still, Chloe couldn’t bring herself to hand Ethan over not to the nurses, not to the maids, not even to the trusted nanny who had raised children in royal households.
“I know they’re trained,” she whispered to Michael one night, staring at the ceiling, Ethan in her arms again, always in her arms. “I know they won’t hurt him. But something in me won’t let go.”
Michael didn’t try to talk her out of it.
He never once said you’re being unreasonable. He simply brought her food when she forgot to eat. He kissed her forehead when her hands shook. He stepped into the nursery at 2 a.m. when he heard her crying silently with Ethan pressed against her shoulder.
And when he was too tired to speak, he just sat beside her in silence. That was love too.
But healing isn’t a straight line.
One morning, Michael came downstairs to find Chloe in the kitchen barefoot, exhausted, trying to warm a bottle while cradling Ethan with one arm and wiping tears with the other.
“Let me,” he said gently.
“No,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I have to do this. I need to.”
Her body trembled with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept more than two hours a night. Her hair was unbrushed, her robe slipping off her shoulders, her eyes wild and filled with guilt.
Michael didn’t argue. He didn’t scold.
He simply walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder, and whispered, “Then I’ll do it with you.”
Chloe broke.
Not in a fragile way. In a release.
- Writer
