First Born

Several months had passed since Camilla’s wedding day, and whatever hope she had carried into that marriage had stretched thin, worn down not by one defining moment but by a thousand quiet disappointments. The cottage she had once imagined as a sanctuary now felt heavy with unspoken tension, its walls absorbing arguments and silences alike.

Steven drank every day. Not recklessly, not loudly, not even with excuses anymore, but with a consistency that unsettled her. Alcohol had folded itself into the rhythm of his life so seamlessly that it no longer registered as a problem to him, only as something necessary. A drink before dinner, another after, and sometimes more before bed. Some mornings he left the house already smelling of it, his tie crooked, his eyes dull and irritable when she asked if he was feeling alright.

More than once, he had gone to work that way.

When Camilla mentioned it, gently at first, he waved her off. "You worry too much," would always he his come back. He was under pressure. Anyone would be. She learned quickly that pressing the issue only sharpened his temper, so she stopped. Or rather, she swallowed her concern and carried it quietly, like so many other things.

The firm had begun to change toward him as well. The late evenings. The guarded way he spoke about work. Letters that arrived and disappeared. Closed conversations when she entered the room. Steven insisted everything was fine, and Camilla wanted to believe him. She needed to.

Money became another quiet strain. Steven’s salary no longer stretched as far as it once had, and his habits drained their account faster than Camilla could replenish it. She adjusted instinctively, buying less, planning carefully, postponing purchases she once would not have thought twice about. She told herself this was temporary. That marriage required patience. That things would steady themselves.

"Once the baby comes," she thought. "He’ll change. He has to."

By the final month of her pregnancy, Camilla moved carefully, her body heavy with the child she carried. Sleep came in short, restless stretches. Her back ached constantly, her feet swelling before the day was half over, but she continued working, cooking, cleaning and holding together a life that felt increasingly fragile beneath her hands.

Then, at four one morning, everything shifted.

She woke suddenly, disoriented, a warm urgency spreading beneath her. For a moment, confusion held her still, and then panic surged, sharp and undeniable. She pushed herself upright and stared at the soaked sheets, her breath catching painfully in her chest. Her water had broken.

“Steven,” she called, her voice already edged with fear. “Steven, wake up. We need to go.”

There was no response. She shook him, harder now, urgency rising with every second that passed. “Steven, please. I’m in labour. We need to leave now.”

A groan escaped him, thick with sleep and alcohol. “Just lie down,” he muttered. “You’re fine.”

Fear curled hot and suffocating in her chest. It wasn’t until he shifted and felt the dampness beneath his hand that reality reached him. He sat up abruptly, eyes widening. “Camilla?”

“I told you,” she said, her voice trembling as she reached for the bed frame to steady herself. “I’m in labour.”

The drive to the hospital blurred into streaks of red lights. Steven gripped the steering wheel tightly, calling the doctor with frantic urgency, his voice stripped of bravado, sobriety surfacing only in crisis. Camilla focused on staying calm, clinging to the quiet hope that the arrival of their son would change something fundamental between them.

Labour was long and punishing. She had wanted a natural birth but the contractions hadn't and hours passed with little progress. By early afternoon, the doctor gently suggested induction, and Camilla nodded, eager to meet the life she had carried for months.

By evening, her strength was nearly gone. Then, finally, a cry cut through the room, sharp, fierce, miraculous. Tears blurred her vision as they placed her son against her chest, his warmth anchoring her in a way nothing else ever had.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered, relief trembling through her voice.

They named him Marshall.

At just 2.6 kilograms, he was small but perfect, his tiny fists curling instinctively against her skin. Camilla memorised his face as exhaustion finally claimed her, committing every detail to her heart.

Steven remained behind when she slept, standing near the bassinet, staring down at their son with an expression she hadn’t seen in months, something close to reverence. For the first time in a long while, he seemed present.

The days that followed felt almost unreal.

Steven cooked, cleaned and even took Marshall from her arms and rocked him quietly, whispering nonsense words that softened something dangerously hopeful inside her.

Family and friends visited, filling the cottage with laughter and congratulations, and Camilla allowed herself to believe, cautiously, quietly, that perhaps this was the turning point she had prayed for.

But hope, she would learn, was fragile.

A month after Marshall’s birth, Steven slipped back into old patterns with unsettling ease. His presence became inconsistent again, his attention wandering, his patience thinning.

Camilla returned to work, leaving Marshall with her aunt during the day, unable to trust anyone else with her child. Her days settled into a relentless cycle of work, home, feeding, bathing, cleaning, cooking and sleeping, though that was in fragments.

Steven came home drunk some nights, barely home at all on others, showering, changing clothes, muttering vague excuses before disappearing again. Arguments surfaced more frequently now, born of exhaustion and resentment neither of them seemed willing to name.

“This can’t continue,” Camilla cried one evening, tears streaking down her face. “You need to be more present, for me and your child. I can’t do this alone.”

Steven’s expression didn’t soften. “I’m going out,” he said, already reaching for his jacket.

“It’s the weekend,” she pressed. “You don’t work weekends.”

“I have a client,” he replied, already turning away.

That night, Camilla sat on the couch with Marshall asleep against her chest, the house unnervingly quiet. Midnight passed. Then one. Then two. And still Steven was not home.

Earlier messages replayed in her mind, brief, dismissive, careless.

Steven: Boss took us to dinner. Don’t wait up.

She listened to the radio, flinching at every traffic report, every mention of accidents. Panic settled deep in her chest, heavy and relentless.

When headlights finally swept across the window, relief surged so quickly it left her dizzy. The front door opened, and Steven stepped inside, jacket loose, hair rumpled, his expression unreadable.

“You’re awake,” he said flatly.

Camilla stood slowly, Marshall cradled against her. “Where have you been?”

“I told you. Dinner.”

“It’s nearly four in the morning.”

“So?”

“So?” Her voice shook. “You didn’t answer your phone. I thought something had happened.”

“You worry too much,” he said dismissively. “Go to bed.” Camilla didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength.

Later, lying beside him, staring at the ceiling, Steven’s phone buzzed on the bedside table. She didn’t look. But the sound echoed long after it stopped, planting questions she wasn’t ready to face.

Weeks passed, each one heavier than the last. Steven drank more. Stayed out later. Came home colder. Camilla found herself studying his face while he slept, searching for the man she had married, but rarely finding him.

One afternoon, while folding laundry, Steven’s phone lit up on the counter.

Unknown: Last night was amazing. Can’t wait to see you again.

Her hands froze. Slowly, deliberately, she set the phone back down without opening it. She didn’t confront him yet. She wasn’t ready. Hope still had its claws in her, painful but persistent.

That evening, she held Marshall a little tighter, kissed his hair, and told herself she would wait. That she would try. That marriages didn’t fall apart overnight. But somewhere deep inside her, something had begun to shift, and she didn’t yet know what it would cost her to keep holding on.

Morning arrived without ceremony. Grey light filtered through the thin curtains, illuminating the quiet mess of the night before, a discarded jacket over the chair, Steven’s shoes kicked off near the door, the faint lingering scent of alcohol still clinging to the air. Camilla lay awake long before Steven stirred, Marshall nestled against her chest, his breathing soft and rhythmic. She watched the rise and fall of her son’s tiny body and tried to steady herself.

Steven slept heavily beside them, one arm flung across the mattress, his face slack in a way that no longer looked peaceful. There had been a time when she would have brushed his hair back, kissed his temple, whispered something gentle into the space between waking and sleep. This morning, she didn’t move.

When Steven finally woke, it was with a groan, his hand pressed to his forehead. “Do we have coffee?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” Camilla replied evenly.

She shifted carefully, easing Marshall into his crib before heading to the kitchen. The kettle clicked on, placing the mugs on the counter with deliberate calm. She had learned that mornings set the tone for the day, too sharp, and he retreated; too soft, and resentment bubbled dangerously close to the surface.

Steven entered a few minutes later, shirt wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. He took the mug without thanks and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

“You were late again,” Camilla said quietly.

He exhaled sharply. “Here we go.”

“I’m not fighting,” she said quickly. “I just… I need to understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” he snapped. “Work runs late. That’s how it is.”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I told you, I was busy.”

“With what?” The question escaped before she could soften it.

Steven’s jaw tightened. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

Camilla swallowed. “Because you give me nothing else.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Marshall’s cry cut through it from the other room, sharp and demanding. Camilla moved immediately, instinct overriding everything else.

Steven watched her go, then drained his mug and left without another word. The door closed harder than necessary.

She didn’t cry, instead, Camilla settled into the familiar rhythm of her days, feeding Marshall, rocking him when his cries turned sharp with discomfort, whispering reassurances she wasn’t sure she believed herself. She returned to work on reduced hours, grateful for the distraction but weighed down by exhaustion. Colleagues commented on how thin and tired she looked. She smiled and brushed it off.

Steven became increasingly absent. When he was home, he was distracted, phone always in hand, eyes flicking to the screen at every vibration. When she asked who was messaging, he answered too quickly, too casually. Work. Clients. Nothing important. She eventually stopped asking, not because she believed him, but because the answers hurt less when left unspoken.

Some evenings, he didn’t come home at all.

Those nights were the worst. Camilla would pace the living room, the clock ticking louder with every passing minute. She’d tell herself he was safe. That nothing had happened. That she was being dramatic. Still, she slept in fragments, waking at every sound, every imagined footstep. When he did return in the early hours, she pretended to be asleep.

Once, she caught him standing in the doorway of Marshall’s room, watching their son with an expression she couldn’t read. For a brief moment, hope flared again, quiet, treacherous.

“Do you ever think about him?” she asked later, unable to stop herself.

Steven didn’t look up from his phone. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean… about being here. About being present.”

“I provide,” he said flatly. “That’s my job.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what it is.”

The distance between them became something tangible, something that lived in the spaces they no longer filled together. Conversations grew shorter. Touch rarer. Camilla found herself doing everything alone, doctor appointments, sleepless nights, first milestones. Steven missed Marshall’s first real laugh. His first attempt at rolling over. She told herself she would tell him later, then didn’t.

One evening, as she bathed Marshall, she heard Steven’s voice drifting from the living room, low and intimate. She paused, heart tightening, straining to catch the words. The tone was unfamiliar, softer, almost amused. When she entered the room, he ended the call abruptly.

“Who was that?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

“No one,” he said too quickly. “Just work.”

Camilla nodded. She was getting very good at that.

That night, she sat at the kitchen table long after Steven had gone to bed, staring at the glow of her phone without really seeing it. She thought about the woman she had been before marriage, the one that was confident, certain, full of plans. She wondered when exactly she had begun to shrink herself to fit the shape of someone else’s silence. Still, she stayed.

She cooked his favourite meals. Kept the house clean. Smoothed over tension with forced smiles and gentle words. She told herself this was a phase. That stress did this to people. That children changed men in time. But there were moments, small, cutting moments, when the truth pressed too close to ignore.

Like the afternoon she found a receipt tucked into Steven’s jacket pocket. Dinner for two. Expensive. Not a client place. Not somewhere they’d ever gone together. She folded the receipt and put it back. That night, Steven barely touched his food.

“Are you happy?” she asked suddenly.

He looked startled. “What?”

“With us,” she clarified. “With this.”

He hesitated just long enough for her heart to drop. “I’m tired,” he said finally. “Can we not do this?”

She nodded, throat tight. “Of course.”

In bed, she lay awake beside him, staring into the dark, Steven’s back turned toward her. She reached out once, resting her hand lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Camilla withdrew her hand slowly. She wasn’t done yet. She wasn’t ready to give up. But something inside her had shifted, a quiet recognition that love alone couldn’t carry what he refused to hold.

And somewhere, beneath the exhaustion and denial, a question began to form, not if things would change, but how much she could lose before she stopped trying to save them.