Postpartum

[u/SevereReveal1373]

When I gave birth for the first time, I was 15. I won’t get into how I ended up a teen mom—if I could even call myself a mom back then. I felt less like a person and more like… a womb. What matters is that I had postpartum depression, and those first months were hell.

I lived with my parents, my older brother, my mom’s younger sister and my grandparents, in a tiny house on a quiet neighborhood, in a country I won't name. The crib was installed in the room I shared with my aunt. Sometimes she'd lose her temper and yell at me when the baby cried.

I can’t deny my family did what they could to help me. I'd spend most of my time crying in my bed, no thoughts in my mind, not even sure what I was crying about. My mother would bring me soup, trying to convince me to take better care of my kid; first, gently, then pleading, and then yelling and threatening me. I can still taste that soup—slightly overripe tomatoes and carrots—whenever I cry. My father was the financial provider, but even he and my aunt would help caring for the baby when I was on my worst days. My brother… he was different.

He never raised his voice. He would watch me with the baby, his expression unreadable, and then quietly offer to hold Daniel for a while. When I hesitated, he’d tell me I needed rest, that I looked sick, that I shouldn’t be left alone with something that “demanded so much.”

I was feeling worse day by day. My mind would get confused and my body felt dizzy. I thought maybe my mom was feeding me antidepressants without my knowledge. But she'd never risk any drugs affecting her grandson.

One time I woke up and saw my aunt taking Daniel from his crib. I felt like I couldn't move. I wanted to ask her what she was doing, but no sound came out of my mouth. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was breastfeeding. I couldn't remember how that happened.

One evening, when the baby's cries had been going on for hours, my brother sat beside me on the bed. His voice was calm, almost soothing.

“Have you noticed,” he asked, “how his eyes don’t look like ours?”

I stared at Daniel, too tired to answer.

“They swapped him.” he whispered.

I didn't reply, but deep down the words crawled under my skin. The thought festered. Every time I looked at my son, I saw something that didn’t belong. I hated myself for it.

The last night I heard Daniel cry, it stopped suddenly, cut off mid-breath. I rushed to the crib, but it was empty. My brother stood in the corner, his face pale and unreadable.

“Don't worry,” he said softly. “I took care of it."

My mother screamed when she found the crib empty. My aunt blamed me. My father didn’t look at me for weeks. The police interrogated me. But the case was dismissed due to lack of evidence. No body was found.

Years later, I moved to another state, where I met my husband and started a family. I have a beautiful daughter now. My family never visited her, not even my brother.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, tasting the soup in the back of my throat, my chest too heavy to breathe. I hear my brother's voice:

“He wasn’t really your baby.”

And I shiver. I go check my daughter. She's safe. We're all safe. And nobody will ever know what happened to Daniel.