Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

BABY BLUES
Jenna Hefele
I looked down at my child and felt nothing. His big, blue eyes looked up at me expectantly,
hoping for some kind of response. My son, Samuel, cooed at me lovingly and
let out a gurgle as spit bubbles came popping out from his smiling lips. His hair was
starting to grow in slightly. It dusted his head with feathery blonde fuzz. His delicate skin
felt smooth as velvet and his fragile body rested trustingly in my arms. I looked into his
round eyes and frowned. He felt like a stranger. The baby began to cry, but I couldn’t
move. I just continued to stare down at him while his face grew increasingly more red
and angry. I felt stuck in my chair. Like a statue, unable to react. I shouldn’t be a mom.
He needs someone better. I felt like a shell of a person. This baby had stolen something
from me, leaving nothing behind except my physical self.
“What’s going on? Michelle? He’s crying! Can’t you see how upset he is? Why aren’t
you doing anything?” My husband yelled at me frantically as he came rushing out from
our bedroom. His words floated towards me through a fog, but they failed to generate a
response. I remained sitting.
He angrily scooped Samuel from me and tried his best to soothe the screaming infant,
shooting me a condemning look.
“What’s wrong with you?” my husband shouted, further upsetting the baby. My baby.
I stood up slowly and walked over towards the front door. I opened it and closed my
eyes as a rush of cold air hit me smack in the face. I stepped outside and closed the door
behind me. I didn’t look back as I blindly walked down the snow-covered road towards
the freezing river.
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