Page 1 of Insidious

Chapter 1

Luna

I always thought the first weeks with a newborn would smell like milk and baby powder.

The books said hold her skin to skin, immediate bonding, you’ll glow, like motherhood was some soft-focus Instagram reel with gentle music in the background, while those filters make you look like you have soft, glow-y skin and everything is shining and bright.

No one mentioned the feeling that you are not quite you anymore.

No one mentioned that the baby bottles and muslin cloths pile up, and you don’t give a fuck.

Nothing you read implies that you would feel like you’re the only person left on Earth and still look fine to your husband and family. To Isaac, who I thought knew me better than anyone else on this planet.

I bounce Amelie with one knee, my palm pressed against my aching lower back. She’s been crying on and off for three hours—hiccupping, hungry, overtired little sobs that scrape at my chest like tiny claws. She is mine, but is it wrong to wish she would be quiet for just a little while? My T-shirt is damp with milk stains, even though I don’t have enough to fill her little belly. The midwife has asked me to put my baby girl to breast. Amelie gnaws at my nipples with her toothless little gums, and it hurts. Is it supposed to hurt?

I haven’t showered. I stink of sour milk and vomit. I can’t remember when I last brushed my hair. I don’t care, and it sometimes scares me before that feeling also disappears into the nothingness.

It’s nearly 7 in the evening.

He should have been home by now.

I hear the laptop ping again. It has been doing that all day.

I have been ignoring it. I used to be interested in Isaac’s work, his endless projects and deadlines. Now, there are late nights he “can’t get out of” and dinners I can’t attend. And I am too exhausted to ask him what his day was like. I just want to sleep.

I stop rocking for a moment, and Amelie’s cry spikes into a sharp, ferocious wail. I start to jiggle her again … and my fingers accidentally brush the laptop trackpad.

The screen wakes up and my brain seems to emerge from deep sleep. On an impulse, I reach over to key in the password. Maybe some music will stop this feeling that the world is ending.

An unread message blinks on the screen as if impatient for attention.

He has left his WhatsApp logged in.

Then another ping.

Then a whole thread. One name stands out.

Chloe.

The Chloe.

His ex—the one he insists he loathes because she is so selfish, but he still feels obliged to help out when she calls. Which is often. The words blur as I read.

You must miss the freedom.

Kids change everything, don’t they?

Bet you wish you could escape for a few days. Come down one weekend. I still know what you like.

My burning eyes skim, my pulse strangely thrumming its normal, unaffected beats.

God, I found our wedding album. We were so young.

A photo of a smiling Isaac carrying a shrieking Chloe over the threshold pops up. They both looked so young.

The messages pile up but there are no replies from him.

And then three dots, followed by a reply bubble from Isaac—