BENEATH THE MIRROR

The perfect father

The labour was long twenty-two hours from the first contraction to the moment the baby’s cry split the air.

Elena had never been so exhausted, and yet when the nurse placed the tiny bundle against her chest, the rest of the world seemed to fall away. She traced the baby’s soft cheek with a trembling finger.

“It’s a boy,” the nurse said, smiling.

“A boy,” Elena whispered, tears spilling down her face.

Adrian stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His smile was wide, confident. “Our son. I told you he’d be perfect.”

The hospital days were a blur of nurses, feedings, and the strange, endless clock of newborn life. Adrian was always there, standing just behind her, answering questions before she could, thanking staff with a charm that made them smile.

When the paediatrician came to explain the baby’s care, Adrian stepped forward, blocking her view. “I’ve got it,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about all the details, Elena. Just rest.”

She wanted to listen to herself, to ask her questions but the doctor had already launched into the explanation, speaking directly to Adrian as though she weren’t in the room.

They came home on a hot August afternoon.

Adrian carried the baby inside while Elena followed, slower, still aching from the delivery. She noticed immediately that the apartment had changed a brand-new crib stood in the bedroom, a bassinet in the living room, and the kitchen counters were rearranged to make space for bottles and formula.

“You didn’t have to do all this while I was gone,” she said, touched but also unsettled.

“I wanted everything perfect before my family came home,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

The first week was a haze.

Adrian took over diaper changes and feedings, insisting she “focus on recovery.” At first, it felt like a blessing. But as the days went on, she realised she wasn’t getting much time alone with her baby.

When she reached for the baby one afternoon, Adrian shook his head gently. “He just fell asleep in my arms. Let him rest. You should lie down too.”

Another time, when she was changing a diaper, Adrian stood watching, then stepped in. “Here let me do it. You’re still moving slowly.”

She wanted to believe it was love. But a small voice in the back of her mind whispered: He’s keeping score.

Visitors began to arrive.

Adrian played the role of the perfect father flawlessly offering drinks, telling stories about late-night feedings, swaying the baby in his arms while relatives cooed over them.

“He’s such a natural,” one of his aunts said, smiling at Elena. “You’re lucky.”

Lucky. The word stuck in her throat.

During one visit, her friend Maya reached for the baby. Before Elena could answer, Adrian said smoothly, “Let’s let him stay with Mom and Dad for now. Too many hands can overwhelm him.”

Maya shot Elena a questioning look. Elena smiled weakly, not trusting herself to say anything.

Nights were the hardest.

When the baby cried, Adrian would often get there first. “Go back to sleep,” he’d murmur, already lifting the baby from the bassinet.

Some nights, she’d lie awake listening to him pace the living room, speaking softly to their son. She should have been grateful. Instead, she felt like she was watching from the outside, as though she were only a guest in her own child’s life.

Three weeks in, Elena tried to take the baby for a short walk to the park.

“Why?” Adrian asked, frowning.

“Fresh air will be good for both of us.”

“I can bring him,” Adrian said quickly. “It’s hot out. You’re still healing.”

“I want to,” she insisted.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. But I’m coming with you.”

The walk was short, and Adrian stayed so close she felt caged, his hand on the stroller, steering even when she tried to guide it herself.

By September, the apartment no longer felt like hers at all. Adrian’s mother began visiting often, offering advice that sounded more like instructions.

“Don’t pick him up every time he cries,” she said one afternoon, as Elena reached for her son.

Adrian nodded in agreement. “Mom’s right. You’ll spoil him.”

Elena bit back her frustration. “He’s three weeks old. He needs comfort.”

Adrian’s expression cooled instantly. “We’re his parents. We’ll decide together what’s best for him.”

But “together” increasingly felt like “Adrian decides, Elena agrees.”

One night, after putting the baby down, Elena finally said it out loud.

“I feel like you’re cutting me out,” she said quietly.

Adrian froze. “Cutting you out? I’m doing everything for you. For both of you.”

“I know you are, but”

“But what?” His voice sharpened. “You’re exhausted. You’re emotional. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

The conversation ended there, his tone closing the door on any further protest.

The breaking point came in October.

Elena had been rocking the baby when Adrian came home from work. He kissed her cheek, then took the baby without asking.

“You hold him too much,” he said lightly.

She reached out to take him back. “He’s my son too, Adrian.”

The look he gave her was unreadable a flicker of something cold and possessive. “Our son,” he corrected.

Still, there were moments when he was gentle moments when the old charm returned and she could almost believe they were the couple she’d been certain they were at the start.

One rainy night, he came to bed after a late feeding, wrapping his arms around her. “I know I push,” he murmured. “It’s because I love you. You and him you’re my whole world.”

The words should have warmed her. But she’d learned that Adrian’s love came with invisible strings, strings she was only beginning to see clearly.

By November, the baby was smiling widely, gummy grins that lit up the room.

Adrian was quick to capture them on his phone, sharing them with friends and colleagues. “Look at my boy,” he’d say proudly, always my boy, rarely our son.

Elena noticed. She also noticed how the more Adrian performed fatherhood in public, the more he claimed ownership of it privately.

She began keeping small rebellions to herself, singing to the baby when Adrian was out, sneaking in extra cuddles, and whispering stories in the dark tiny pieces of motherhood she refused to surrender.

And yet, beneath it all, a dangerous truth was growing in her:

She was starting to understand the man she’d married.

And that understanding scared her.