My sister left, and it was just the three of us—me, Lina, and John. We curled up together in the tiny hospital bed, somehow finding enough space between the wires and pillows to sleep for a few hours.
That afternoon, my mom arrived with Ashton.
My baby. Who suddenly looked so big.
Nineteen months older than Lina, but in that moment? Practically grown. Like he'd aged overnight.
He marched in like he owned the place, climbed up beside me, and looked at his sister with wide, curious eyes. Then—big smile, soft hands—he leaned down and kissed her.
Over and over.
"My baby," he said, proudly. Then, "My sissy."
He pointed to my belly, confused. "No baby no more?"
I shook my head.
He nodded, like he understood something sacred.
Then one more time, softer this time—almost a whisper:
"My baby."
⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹
Those first few days with Lina felt like a dream. John was sweet—gentle, even. He held me, held her, kissed my forehead like we were living inside one of those perfect little movie moments. For a while, it felt like the four of us were learning how to be a family. Slowly. Clumsily. But together.
When she was a week old, we had her baby shower at our house. A little backwards, maybe, but it worked. People showed up with arms full of diapers—truly the most brilliant gift of all. Boxes and boxes of freedom stacked in the corner like currency for survival.
Everyone wanted to hold her. She got passed from lap to lap like a prized porcelain doll.
And she was. A doll.
Beautiful. Quiet. All soft cheeks and tiny sighs.
She barely cried. Just blinked up at the world like she'd seen it before and decided it was worth coming back to.
It was one of those years that felt hilarious and awful at the same time—messy, loud, forgettable to everyone except me. The kind that doesn't matter in the big picture… until it does.
Because after that?
Not much happened.
Not right away, anyway.
The days started to blur together—diapers, dishes, Call of Duty, crying (sometimes the kids, sometimes me). A quiet sort of monotony took over. Not unhappy, not explosive. Just… flat.
Which is maybe worse.
⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹
In April, Marie turned 21.
To celebrate, John, Rim, our cousin Clifford, Marie, and I went all out—well, as "all out" as broke twenty-somethings could manage. Fancy dinner at Texas Roadhouse. A round of overpriced cocktails paired with smothered cheese fries that were probably the highlight of the night.
Then we headed back to Rim and Marie's tiny apartment, where everyone except John drank like the world was ending.
UV Blue. Fireball. Horrifying combos that tasted like regret and teenage rebellion. To this day, the smell of either makes me gag.
Marie was sick. Clifford was sick. Rim was sick.
It was… bad.
John drove me home while everyone else spiral-vomited into adulthood.
And me? I rage-cleaned the bathtub.
Yes. At two in the morning. In a dress. Don't ask—I was mad and couldn't cry so I bleached something instead.
Meanwhile, my poor daughter stared at the bottle John fed her like it was some cruel joke.
She looked up at me like, Um, I see you. I smell you. So why the knockoff milk?
Fair question, baby girl.
⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹⊹ ༺ ✶ ༻ ⊹
It wasn't until after Lina was born—after an epidural, a calm birth, and a real moment of peace—that I realized something.
I didn't hurt.
Not like before.
Sex after her was normal. Comfortable. Even enjoyable.
And that's when it hit me—maybe it was never supposed to hurt that much after my son. Maybe I hadn't been broken.
Maybe something else had been done to me.
The Stitch.
No one talks about this. No one warns you.
After my son was born, sex became excruciating. Not uncomfortable. Not "give it time" sore. I'm talking sharp, stabbing, can't-breathe-through-it pain. Every. Single. Time.
I thought something was wrong with me. That my body had failed. That maybe I wasn't strong enough. Maybe I wasn't healing fast enough. Maybe this was just part of motherhood. Sacrifice. Silence. Pain.
But it wasn't my body's fault. It wasn't hormones. It wasn't a "normal" part of postpartum.
It was because the male doctor who delivered my son gave me something called the husband stitch.
Without my consent. Without explanation. Without pain medication.
He sewed me up in jagged, uneven lines and then added one extra stitch. An "extra tight" one, just for my husband. Supposedly to make things more enjoyable for him. As if my body was a gift to be rewrapped. As if I was just supposed to take it.
And I did. For two years, I endured pain every time I tried to be close with the person I'd built a life with. I thought I was broken.
I wasn't.
I was violated.
Again.
It wasn't until years later—talking with my sister-in-law Daphne—that I even heard the name for what had happened. Her doctor told her, proudly, that he'd done the same thing. "You've had three kids," he said, "so I figured your husband would appreciate it."
Let that sink in.
A man—a medical professional—decided that her husband's comfort mattered more than her autonomy. More than her safety. More than her consent.
Same with me.
Same with thousands of other women.
The husband stitch is not a medically sound practice. It has no proven benefit. It is not recommended by any reputable medical body. It causes scar tissue, pain, sexual dysfunction, and trauma. And yet? It's still whispered about in delivery rooms. Still joked about in some hospitals. Still done by some doctors—quietly, secretly, as if it's their little favor to your husband.
But it's not a joke. It's a violation.
And I'm done pretending it wasn't.
After my daughter was born—without tearing, without stitches, without pain—I finally realized what normal was supposed to feel like. I finally realized it didn't have to hurt. That the trauma of my first birth wasn't just emotional—it was physical, lasting, and completely avoidable.
I want this in the book because someone else needs to read it.
Because someone else might still think they're broken.
You're not broken.
You were hurt.
And you deserve to know that it wasn't your fault.