Her Death in the Tub, His Empty Words Outside Chapter 1

We spent everything, burying ourselves in debt to save our premature son. But in the end, we lost him.

After that, I fell into a deep depression. Noah, terrified I’d do something reckless, tried everything to make me smile, even with the debt crushing him.

“Babe, we can always make more money,” he’d say, holding me. “As long as I have you, we have a home.”

He worked day and night—delivering food, driving for a ride-share. No matter how exhausted, he’d hug me the moment he got home. For a year, he held us together with sheer grit.

I thought we’d make it through. I thought one day I’d tell him I was okay.

But then I saw some kids playing outside and broke down.

Noah, who had just walked in with bloodshot eyes, finally snapped.

“Enough! When does this miserable life end?!” he screamed. “Everyone feels sorry for you. But what about me? Who feels sorry for me?”

He threw his helmet down and ran out into the rain.

I was alone.

My eyes drifted to the utility knife on the windowsill.

It would be better to be dead.

Dead, so Noah wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

Dead, so I could be with my baby.

…

The rain hammered against the window, a frantic, desperate rhythm.

Noah was gone.

The security door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

I stood there, staring at the closed door, the frame still trembling, my heart trembling with it.

“Who the hell is here to feel sorry for me?”

The words echoed in my mind, a relentless torment.

He was right. Who was there for him?

To pay for my therapy, to pay off the debts from a child we couldn’t even keep, he worked through fevers, through exhaustion.

I was a burden.

No child, no job. Now, I couldn’t even offer a sliver of emotional support. I just made things worse.

My gaze fell on the windowsill, on the utility knife Noah used to open packages. The blade glinted in the dim light, a cold, silent invitation.

It would be better to be dead.

Once the thought took root, it was impossible to shake.

Dead, so Noah wouldn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore. He wouldn’t have to eat leftovers to save money, wouldn’t have to force a smile for a five-dollar delivery fee in a downpour.

And I could finally be with the baby who never got to call me “Mom.”

I walked over and picked up the knife. It was light, yet it felt impossibly heavy.

I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I stuffed a towel into the crack beneath it. I didn’t want the smell of blood to escape. Noah hated the smell of blood. He used to hide whenever I had to clean a fish.

I turned on the faucet and lay down in the tub. The cold water seeped into my clothes, but I couldn’t feel it.

I picked up my phone and opened my messages. His name, “My Husband,” was pinned to the top. The last message was from him, sent that afternoon: “Babe, what do you want for dinner? I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

He was still trying then. Still trying to coax a smile out of me.

I typed a new message: “Going to a friend’s to clear my head. Don’t look for me.”

My finger hovered over the send button. Finally, I scheduled it to send at 8:30 PM.

He would be home from the evening rush then. He’d be a little annoyed, but also relieved. He wouldn’t have to face me. He could get a good night’s sleep.

I placed the phone on the sink, the screen casting a pale light on my face.

I took the knife and drew it, hard, across my wrist.

Once, twice. The skin parted, and a fountain of crimson erupted, blooming in the clear water like grotesque, garish flowers.

I closed my eyes and leaned back. The warmth was draining from my body, bit by bit. As my consciousness faded, I saw my baby, smiling at me from the clouds, his chubby little arms reaching for me.

“Mommy’s coming, baby,” I whispered. Tears mingled with the blood in the water. You won’t be alone anymore.

Just before the darkness consumed me completely, I heard the rain stop.

Good.

The rain has stopped.

And I don’t love you anymore, Noah.