When Michael pulled his car into the driveway that Tuesday evening, he could already hear the crying, high-pitched, hoarse, relentless.
It pierced through the closed windows of the house like a warning siren. He shut the engine off and sat for a moment, shoulders slumping.
The crying had become the soundtrack of their lives these past four weeks, but something about today’s intensity felt different, more desperate.
He grabbed the grocery bags from the passenger seat and hurried inside.
The moment he opened the door, the noise hit him harder. Their newborn, little Jonah, was shrieking from somewhere upstairs. But what made Michael’s stomach tighten was the sight of his wife, Tessa, sitting on the living room couch with her head in her hands.
Her hair was dishevelled, her face pale, and her shoulders shook quietly.
“Tess?” he said, dropping the bags and rushing to her. “Hey… hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy from crying. “I can’t do this anymore, Michael. He won’t stop. I’ve tried everything. Everything.”
Michael sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. She was trembling.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m here now. I’ll take over.”
But Tessa only shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. He won’t sleep. He won’t eat more than a few sips. He screams when I hold him, when I put him down… I’m losing my mind. Something is wrong with him. I know it.”
Michael kissed the top of her head. “We’ve talked to the paediatrician. He said babies cry. Especially colicky ones.”
“This isn’t colic!” she cried, pulling away. “This is torture.”
A fresh wail from upstairs made them both flinch.
Michael rose. “Let me go check on him.”
Tessa hesitated before whispering, “I put him in the crib an hour ago. But he hasn’t stopped. Not for a second.” Her voice cracked. “I’m afraid to go back up there.”
Michael squeezed her hand and headed to the staircase.
As he climbed, a strange heaviness grew in his stomach. He’d left for work early that morning, rushing out the door without even finishing his coffee because he had a meeting.
Tessa had looked exhausted even then, eyes dull from weeks of sleepless nights. He’d kissed her cheek and promised he’d be home early.
But he wasn’t. Meetings, traffic, errands, it all added up. And she had been here alone with a newborn who sounded like he was being torn apart.
He reached the nursery and pushed open the door.
The sight hit him like a punch.
Jonah was in the crib, his tiny face beet-red, his fists clenched, his back arched. He was screaming so hard he could barely inhale. His body looked stiff with discomfort.
“Hey, buddy,” Michael whispered, scooping him up. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you…”
But as soon as Michael lifted him, the baby’s crying changed less frantic, more like gasping sobs, as if grateful for the relief.
Michael swayed gently, whispering calm words. After a minute, Jonah’s cries softened further.
“See? That’s better,” he murmured.
Then he turned toward the crib.
And his jaw clenched.
Something was wrong.
The baby blanket inside was bunched into a tight roll wedged against the mattress near the wooden slats. The monitor cord, which was supposed to be clipped safely out of reach, was somehow dangling inside the crib.
And beneath the blanket roll, Michael could see the culprit: a bulky electronic noise machine Tessa usually kept on the dresser now lying inside the crib, still humming softly.
Michael felt the heat rising in him. These items weren’t just misplaced; they were dangerous. They didn’t accidentally fall in. They had been put there.
Who would do that?
But before the thought fully formed, he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He turned.
Tessa stood at the doorway, her eyes unfocused, her expression almost blank.
“I didn’t want to come up,” she whispered. “I knew you’d see. I knew you’d blame me.”
Michael blinked at her, confused. “Tessa… did you put the noise machine in here? And the monitor cord? And the blanket like that?”
She looked down at her hands as if she didn’t recognise them. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember doing anything today. I just… I just had to get away from the crying. My head is so foggy.” Her voice grew small. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
A cold rush of fear swirled through him, not anger anymore, but something deeper.
“Tessa,” he said gently, shifting Jonah in his arms. “Did you sleep at all?”
She shook her head. “I tried. But every time I closed my eyes, he screamed. And when he didn’t scream, I kept thinking he would. And then I didn’t trust myself around him.” Her breath hitched. “I’m scared, Michael.”
He stepped toward her slowly. “Okay. Okay. We’re going downstairs. We’ll sit. We’ll talk. And tomorrow, I’m calling your doctor.”
“No,” she whispered, backing against the doorframe. “They’ll think I’m a bad mother.”
“You’re not.” He wanted to grab her shoulders, to shake the fear out of her. “You’re exhausted. You’re overwhelmed. You’re not a danger to him. You’re drowning.”
Tessa wrapped her arms around herself. “I didn’t mean to put anything in the crib. I swear.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Come downstairs. Please.”
She nodded weakly.
Together, they went back to the living room. Michael held the baby, who was now dozing lightly against his chest.
Tessa sank onto the edge of the couch.
He sat beside her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, she whispered, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Michael brushed his thumb along Jonah’s tiny back. “Parenthood never is.”
“No,” she said, “I mean… I thought I would love this. I thought I would be good at this. Everyone else makes it look so easy. My mom managed five kids on her own after my dad died. My sister practically glowed during her postpartum months. And here I am afraid of my own baby.” Her voice crumbled. “What kind of mother is that?”
“A human one,” he said. “And you don’t have to manage this alone.”
She stared at the floor. “You’re not here during the day.”
“So I’ll change that,” he said immediately. “I’ll ask for a modified schedule. I’ll work from home more. We’ll get someone to help a nurse, a doula, one of your sisters, anyone.”
Tessa shook her head. “They can’t see me like this.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll think I’m weak.”
Michael swallowed hard. “Being overwhelmed doesn’t make you weak. Not asking for help does.”
Her breath trembled, and she leaned into him.
For a few minutes, they sat silently, the baby breathing softly against Michael’s chest.
Then Tessa whispered, “You’re angry with me.”
He hesitated. “I was scared when I saw those things in the crib.”
“So you do think I did it.”
“I think you’re exhausted to the point of not remembering what you’re doing.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. “That’s worse.”
“No, Tess. It just means you need support, real support. This isn’t your fault.”
Tessa finally nodded, a shaky surrender.
But then, as if a thought suddenly worried her, she asked, “Do you think… could it be something else? He cries even when he’s fed and changed. Even when I rock him. Even when I’m holding him. What if he’s sick?”
Michael had wondered the same thing.
“We’ll have the paediatrician check him again,” he said.
“But he said the last time that nothing was wrong.”
“Then we’ll get a second opinion.”
She exhaled shakily. “Okay.”
That night, Tessa slept for the first time in weeks, truly slept. Michael stayed up with Jonah, pacing the hallway, humming, patting, whispering. The baby cried on and off but nothing like earlier. He seemed lighter, comforted, as if the simple act of being held eased something deep within him.
As dawn crept through the curtains, Michael noticed something unusual.
Every time he laid Jonah flat on his back, even gently, the baby whimpered, squirmed, and then almost instantly started wailing again.
But when Michael held him upright, against his chest, Jonah calmed.
A pattern. A clue.
Michael frowned. Babies often disliked being put down. But this seemed sharper, almost like pain.
By the time Tessa awoke late that morning, slightly more rested, though still fragile, Michael had already called the paediatrician.
The doctor fit them in at noon.
Inside the clinic, Jonah cried through most of the appointment. The doctor, a calm middle-aged man with kind eyes, examined him carefully.
After several minutes, he leaned back, thoughtful.
“I don’t think this is simple colic,” he said. “His discomfort when lying flat concerns me. He may have a severe case.”
“Reflux?” Tessa whispered.
“Yes. It can be incredibly painful for infants, especially when lying down. It can also cause nonstop crying, poor sleep, and irritability. Many parents mistake it for colic, but it’s different. And treatable.”
Michael felt his heart stutter. “So he’s been in pain this whole time?”
“Very likely,” the doctor said gently. “And if neither of you realised it, that’s understandable. This isn’t uncommon.”
Tessa covered her mouth with her hand. “My God.”
“We’ll adjust his feeding schedule, elevate his mattress slightly, and I’ll start him on a mild medication. You should see improvement within days.”
A weight lifted from Michael’s chest. He reached for Tessa’s hand. She squeezed back, her expression torn between relief and guilt.
The doctor noticed.
“You are not at fault,” he said firmly. “Newborns don’t come with instruction manuals. You’re both doing your best.”
Tessa nodded weakly.
“And you’ll come back next week so we can check his progress.”
They left the clinic with a plan, a diagnosis, and a sense of direction they hadn’t had in weeks.
But something still bothered Michael.
The crib.
The blanket roll. The noise machine. The cord.
The doctor had mentioned sleep deprivation could cause confusion, memory gaps, and even dissociative episodes. And Tessa had been running on empty for far too long.
But another part of him, the part that worried about safety, needed more than assumptions.
That evening, after Jonah drifted to sleep in an elevated bassinet beside the couch, Michael sat with Tessa at the kitchen table.
“Tess,” he began gently, “I need to ask something. Not because I’m accusing you. But because I want to understand.”
She looked at him cautiously. “Okay.”
“Do you remember going into the nursery today? At all?”
Tessa rubbed her temples. “I remember putting him down in the crib. Then he screamed. I picked him up. Rocked him. Put him back. And then… it gets fuzzy.” Her eyes filled again. “Michael, I swear I didn’t put anything dangerous near him.”
He studied her face. She wasn’t lying. She was barely holding herself together.
“Okay,” he whispered, taking her hand. “I believe you.”
She exhaled shakily.
He continued, “From now on, when we’re tired or overwhelmed, we’ll both double-check the crib before putting him down. And we’ll keep the monitor cord elsewhere. No devices in the room unless they’re secured.”
Tessa nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense.”
But the sense of unease still tugged at Michael quietly, like a thread pulling at the back of his mind.
The changes helped. Over the next several days, Jonah’s crying eased. He still fussed, still needed constant holding, but the agonised shrieking lessened. He slept in slightly longer stretches. And Tessa, though still fragile, seemed to regain moments of her old self. She laughed once, softly, when Jonah made a tiny hiccup after a feeding.
Michael treasured that sound like gold.
They were healing.
Yet the crib incident lingered in his thoughts.
It wasn’t until the following Saturday morning that everything became clear.
Michael was in the nursery changing Jonah when he noticed the wireless baby monitor camera perched on the wall shelf.
He hadn’t checked the footage.
It hadn’t crossed his mind until now, when Jonah fussed mildly, and Michael instinctively bounced him in his arms.
He picked up his phone, opened the app connected to the monitor, and scrolled back through the recordings from earlier in the week, the day everything fell apart.
At first, the footage showed nothing unusual.
Tessa is pacing with the baby. Rocking him. Feeding him. Lying him gently in the crib.
Then pacing again while he screamed.
Her movements grew slower over time. More mechanical. More drained.
Then, at around 3:47 p.m., the time she’d told Michael, she no longer remembered that something unexpected had happened.
She entered the nursery, carrying the noise machine.
But she didn’t place it in the crib.
She set it on the dresser, as usual.
Then she turned away.
Moments later, the door opened again.
Michael’s breath hitched.
It wasn’t Tessa.
It was her younger cousin, Lena, who had been staying with them for two weeks while her apartment underwent repairs.
She stepped into the room, talking on her phone, unaware of the camera’s direct angle.
She paced around, annoyed, rolling her eyes.
Then, with a careless flick, she swept the noise machine off the dresser right into the crib while complaining loudly into the phone about “not getting a moment of peace in this house with that wailing creature.”
Michael’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Lena then pulled the baby blanket carelessly and stuffed it beside the device. When the monitor cord got snagged, she yanked it free, letting it fall into the crib.
The baby cried harder, and she groaned, muttering, “Seriously, shut up,” before leaving the room.
Michael’s jaw hardened.
He watched the footage twice. Three times. Rage, cold and steady, spread through him.
Tessa hadn’t done anything unsafe.
She hadn’t forgotten.
She hadn’t endangered their child.
She had been blamed silently, unknowingly, for something she never did.
Michael gathered Jonah into his arms, holding him close, and marched downstairs.
Tessa was in the kitchen, sipping tea, looking more rested than she had in weeks.
Lena sat on a barstool scrolling through her phone.
Michael walked straight to Tessa.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
She looked up, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
He shifted Jonah to one arm and held his phone out with the other. “I checked the nursery camera.”
Lena’s head snapped up.
Tessa frowned, confused, but took the phone.
Michael watched her expression shift—from confusion to shock to horror.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “She… she threw the noise machine in the crib? She said… she said…”
Tessa looked up at Lena, stunned and trembling. “You said you never went near the crib that day.”
Lena went pale. “I—I didn’t mean it. He was crying nonstop, and I was on the phone with my boss, and I—I didn’t know the crib was that close—”
“You threw something into the crib,” Michael said, voice low and trembling not with volume, but with fury. “You yanked the monitor cord into it. You shoved the blanket in. And you heard him cry harder and walked out.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“It was exactly like that,” he said.
Tessa stared at Lena with wounded eyes that had cried for days, thinking she herself was somehow failing.
“I blamed myself,” she whispered. “I thought I had done something dangerous. I thought I was losing my mind. You let me think that.”
Lena stood, tears brimming. “I didn’t know you would think—”
“That’s the problem,” Michael cut in sharply. “You didn’t think at all.”
Lena’s chin trembled. “I… I’m sorry.”
But the apology felt hollow.
Michael breathed deeply through the fury.
“You need to leave today,” he said. “We’ll get you a hotel. But you’re not staying here another night.”
Lena nodded slowly, her shame finally sinking in. She gathered her things silently and left within the hour.
When the door closed behind her, the house felt heavier but clearer, like a storm had finally passed.
Tessa sank onto the couch.
Michael sat beside her, placing Jonah gently in her arms.
She stared at their baby, tears falling silently.
“I thought it was me,” she whispered. “I thought…I was losing control. That I could hurt him without knowing.”
Michael brushed her cheek with his thumb. “You didn’t. You never would. You’re a good mother, Tess. You just needed help. And now we know what happened.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for finding the truth.”
“Always,” he murmured.
Jonah stirred, eyes fluttering open.
Tessa kissed his forehead. “I’m so sorry you were hurting.”
Michael wrapped his arms around both of them.
“We’re going to do this together,” he said. “No more guessing. No more blaming ourselves. Just us, moving forward.”
She nodded into his shoulder.
For the first time since Jonah’s birth, she didn’t feel alone.
And for the first time, their home felt like a place where healing could truly begin—not just for the baby, but for both of them.
