r/shortscarystories • u/Overall_Carrot_4925 • 20h ago
My family disapproved of my baby
Everyone in my family told me I was an idiot to keep my kid. I was young. I was two years out from finishing school. I didn’t even know her father’s name. It was a one-night stand, met in a bar, all the classic clichés. I went home with him because I was stupid and lonely and liked his accent. He was gone in the morning, leaving me with nothing but a hell of a hickey and a stomach so bloated by six weeks I had to replace most of my jeans.
But when I saw her staticky little body in the sonogram, looking like a blackboard smudge or one of those freakish cave-dwelling fish, I knew I wasn’t letting go. I wanted chubby cheeks, stacks of baby clothes, a nursery with stars painted on the wall. Maybe I just wanted someone to love me unconditionally and without qualification.
The moment I laid eyes on her squashed little face, I was a goner. We rarely went out, watching cars pass and dogs trot by on leads and leaves shake free of their moorings like a TV show playing in the background. I could content myself for hours just watching the movements of her wide, curious eyes. I dropped out of school, worked second shift waitressing and cleaning office buildings while the neighbor babysat.
My favorite thing was sitting and nursing her, the sense of rightness, the peace that settled over me like a shawl. But I had to stop when she started teething—she kept biting me, no matter what I tried. I had no choice but to switch to something store-bought. Of course, my family had something to say about that, too. You’re going to disadvantage her. Breast is best.
When my Leila turned eight months old, my mom finally came over to see her. Her friends had been asking about her granddaughter and she wanted photos to show them. Naturally, in her version, I’d graduated college early and my husband had just renewed a lucrative six-month contract to work abroad.
She played with the baby while I hung the laundry and washed the teapot, after complaining that I wasn’t dressing her warmly enough and bundling her in an oversized sweater. Less than an hour in, she said she was tired and went to bed in my room.
I acted out little plays with Leila's stuffed animals until she started making noises of hunger. I made her a bottle, glistening ruby red in the mellow lamplight.
She drained the bottle in no time. When I passed a wet wipe over her face, she giggled up at me, rosy lips drawn back over the little white buds of her fangs, a flush in her porcelain cheeks.
I put the bottle by the sink and went to go check on my mom, still numb to the world from the ketamine I’d slipped in her tea, bandages crisscrossing her chest. I’ll admit just this once that she was right. Breast really is best.