I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-1

A thought pierced my mind: Throw him down. I nearly hurt my son. Holding three-month-old Arthur, those words echoed. My arm muscles twitched violently. I returned him to the cradle, backed against the wall, digging my nails into my own arm. Staring at his tiny form, I asked myself: What is happening to me? Worse, the thought returned daily. I became convinced Marianne—Toby’s mother, who’d moved in after Arthur’s birth, always whisking him away—was the cause. Until that afternoon, when I found myself inexplicably replaying the baby monitor footage.
The Terrifying Thought
Arthur slept three paces from my bed. At his slightest whimper, I stirred. Three AM: he awoke again with soft murmurs. I lifted him to feed. Eyes closed, he nursed. I felt his comforting weight and warmth against my arm. Then, a voice—not mine—whispered: Throw him down. My arm jerked. Swiftly, I placed him back; the cradle rocked. He burst into tears. I pressed against the wall, breathing raggedly, nails carving crescents into my skin. Why did that thought invade me?

Marianne’s Shadow
Dawn approached as Arthur quieted. Exhausted, I closed my eyes—only for the door to swing open. "Feeding time," declared Marianne, unnervingly alert. She marched to the cradle, bottle in hand. I struggled upright, throat parched. "Marianne, I’ve got him." But she’d already scooped him up, bottle tipped to his lips. "Rest," she commanded, her back to me, rocking him. "You need it." I watched her settle into the room’s only chair. I perched on the hard bed edge. Toby had insisted we prepare bottles ourselves. Her focus wholly on Arthur, I remained silent. Only his rhythmic gulps filled the room: Glug. Glug.

Sparks Flying
Noon. Cradling Arthur, my back ached. Last night’s dishes still filled the sink. Marianne wiped counters briskly. "I’ll wash up," I offered, shifting to place Arthur in his rocker. Instantly, she spun around, drying wet hands on her apron. Her arms reached out. "Give him here. You cook." As if decreeing law. I tightened my hold, turning slightly. "No. I want to hold him." Her hands froze mid-air, inches from Arthur. She met my eyes. A brow lifted. Then, she withdrew, returning to the counter. This time, scrubbing violently. The abrasive scrape of cloth on stainless steel echoed sharply. Screech. Screech. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

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