“Do not try to manipulate me with this emotional blackmail because it is my thirtieth birthday and I deserve to have some peace for once,” he shouted.
As he walked toward the front door, I heard him yell back into the house one last time.
“I am putting my phone on airplane mode right now because I do not want to deal with any of your whining text messages while I am trying to enjoy myself,” he screamed.
The heavy front door slammed shut, and a moment later, I heard the powerful engine of his truck roaring to life in the driveway.
Outside the window, the world seemed perfectly normal as dogs barked in the distance and a neighbor began to water his flower beds.
Inside the nursery, my newborn son was screaming for me and I realized with horror that I could no longer move my legs.
I reached out toward the dresser where my phone was sitting, but my trembling fingers only managed to knock it onto the floor.
The screen lit up directly in front of my face, showing me a notification that I never wanted to see.
Tyler Benson had just posted a new story on his social media account with the caption: Heading to the mountains for steak, whiskey, and zero drama.
The photo showed his hand gripping the steering wheel of his truck with his expensive new watch catching the sunlight.
I lay there on the floor next to my son’s crib, feeling the life draining out of me while the man I loved drove toward a party.
I had no idea that the most difficult part of this nightmare was actually still to come.
I cannot be certain if minutes or hours passed while I lay there in the growing darkness of the nursery.
The sound of Parker’s crying became a permanent part of the atmosphere, acting like a thin thread that kept me tethered to the world of the living.
Every time the baby fell silent for a few seconds, a wave of pure terror would wash over me because I was afraid he had stopped breathing.
I was terrified of dying, but I was even more afraid of leaving my son alone in this house to cry until he had no strength left.
The blood surrounding me no longer felt warm, and instead, it felt like a cold and heavy weight that was pulling me down into the floor.
I desperately wanted to pray for help, but I found that I could not remember the words to any of the prayers I had learned as a child.
The house that Tyler had insisted on buying to impress his business partners now felt like a cold and hollow tomb made of marble and glass.
My phone vibrated against the hardwood floor, sending a dull buzzing sound through the silent room.
Another notification appeared on the screen, showing that Tyler had posted a new video from the luxury cabin.
He was standing in front of a massive stone fireplace while raising a glass of expensive bourbon toward the camera.
In the background, I could hear his friends cheering and laughing as Tyler added a caption about choosing himself and leaving toxicity behind.
Then a new post appeared from my mother-in-law, showing her smiling proudly at her son during the celebration.
“My son deserves to have a rest because some women only know how to use manipulation to get what they want,” she had written under the photo.
That was the moment that finally broke my spirit because I realized that they had discussed my pain as if it were a joke.
Earlier that morning, I had sent her a message telling her that the bleeding was getting worse and that I was scared.
She had responded with a short voice message telling me not to be a drama queen because she was washing diapers three days after she gave birth.
After she sent that message, she had blocked my number or simply ignored every other plea for help I sent.
My eyes began to flutter shut as a heavy fog started to settle over my mind and my heartbeat slowed down.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of someone pounding aggressively on the front door of the house.
“Olivia! Open this door right now!” a familiar voice shouted from the porch.
It was Isabel, my older sister, who lived on the other side of Nashville but always kept a close eye on me.
She had been calling me every few hours since the baby was born, and I had promised to send her a picture of Parker that afternoon.
When I didn’t answer her nine phone calls, Isabel didn’t wait for permission to come over and check on her sister.
I heard the sound of the back door being forced open with a loud bang followed by the sound of heavy footsteps running through the house.
“Olivia!” she screamed as she burst into the nursery and saw the state of the room.
She fell to her knees beside me and grabbed my face with her hands, her voice trembling as she dialed the emergency services.
I remember her wrapping a warm blanket around Parker and pressing every towel she could find against my body to stop the flow.
