There was a scream. A push.
Then, a cry.
The sharp, clear cry of a newborn who hadn't yet seen the world but was already announcing herself to it.
The nurse held up a tiny, wrinkled body, covered in vernix and blood and life.
"Congratulations. It's a healthy baby girl," she said, smiling.
Gilbert let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. He pressed his forehead to Shantel's, repeating her name over and over like it was the only word he remembered.
But Shantel was quiet.
The nurse placed the baby on her chest, but she didn't move.
Her arms stayed limp. Her eyes didn't shift. It was as if she had gone somewhere and back.
The nurse hesitated. "Would you like to hold her?"
Gilbert answered for her. "I can."
The nurse gently lifted the baby into his arms, wrapping her in a soft, pink blanket.
Shantel turned her head to the side. Not giving them both a glance.
Gilbert sat in the corner of the room with Ariel—tiny, red-faced, blinking in confusion. She had a full head of black curls, just like Shantel, and small fists that jerked up toward her face with every new sound.
He was completely mesmerized.
But every few seconds, he glanced at Shantel.
She lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, her hand resting limply on the sheet. The monitors beeped steadily beside her, and she nodded when the nurse asked her questions, but her face was empty.
Not tired. Not in pain.
Just... absent.
Hours passed.
Lauren arrived first, cooing over Ariel, and congratulating them. She turned to Shantel with a bright, warm smile.
"She's perfect. You did amazing."
Shantel smiled faintly. "Thanks."
April came just as soon as she heard the news too, carrying flowers and baby clothes. Even she who was reserved most of the time could not help but fall for how cute Ariel was looking. She took a million pictures and beamed like an aunt already in love.
When she hugged Shantel, though, she felt the stiffness.
"You, okay?" she whispered.
Shantel nodded, too quickly.
April met Gilbert's eyes. He shook his head slightly. Not now.
That night, Gilbert held Ariel for hours. She slept in his arms, curled into the crook of his elbow like she belonged there.
He walked her gently around the room, whispering to her, rocking her slowly. "You're so small," he murmured. "But you've already changed everything."
He looked at Shantel, who was pretending to sleep.
"She looks like you," he said softly. "Same mouth. Same nose. She's going to be beautiful. Strong."
Still, nothing.
The next morning, a nurse came in with a clipboard and a soft voice.
"She needs to feed soon," she said gently. "Would you like to try nursing?"
Shantel hesitated. "Maybe later."
The nurse looked at Gilbert. "We can do skin-to-skin or formula to start."
"I'll do skin-to-skin," Gilbert said, adjusting his shirt.
The nurse helped him settle into the chair with Ariel on his chest. The baby fussed a little, then calmed.
Shantel turned her head toward the window.
By the third day, the nurses were concerned.
"She hasn't held the baby, still?" one asked Gilbert quietly while Shantel was in the bathroom. "At all."
"I guess she's... overwhelmed," Gilbert offered.
"Of course. That's normal. But this feels... deeper. I think it'll be best if she sees a specialist."
He nodded. "I'll talk to her."
He didn't.
When they came home, the nursery was still unfinished.
Gilbert set up the bassinet in their bedroom. He changed Ariel's diapers, swaddled her, rocked her.
Shantel barely touched her.
She stayed in bed most of the time. Not out of pain. But out of something else. Something heavier.
Sometimes Gilbert found her just staring at the ceiling.
He made excuses.
"She's recovering."
"She's tired."
"She just needs time."
But the truth was crawling under his skin too, and yet he couldn't bring himself to confront her.
She hadn't even said Ariel's name. Not even once since they left the hospital.
One night, two weeks in, he came home from a store run and found her sitting on the floor of the nursery. The crib was still half-assembled. One of the mobile pieces lay in her lap.
She didn't look up when he walked in.
"You, okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
"You want me to finish the crib?"
She shook her head. "It's not the crib."
He sat beside her. "Then what?"
"I don't know," she said.
But she did.
She just couldn't say it.
Not yet. Because she didn't want things to turn for the worse.
Maybe carrying everything would be best for everyone.
April called more often now. So did Lauren. Even Shantel's sister, Alma texted regularly, asking for baby updates.
Shantel responded when she felt she had to. But the messages piled up.
One night, Lauren left a voicemail.
"Hey. I'm not pushing, I promise. I just want to remind you—however you're feeling right now, it's okay. You're not alone."
Shantel listened to it twice.
Then deleted it.
The only person Ariel seemed to know was Gilbert.
She calmed in his arms. She followed his voice. She gripped his finger with her tiny hand, as though she knew he was her anchor.
Shantel watched from across the room.
She wanted to feel that bond. Wanted to reach for her daughter and feel overwhelmed by love.
But every time she tried, something inside her pulled back.
Not yet, it whispered.
Not like this. In the end, she just recoils like a wounded snake.
One evening, Gilbert sat on the edge of their bed while Shantel stared out the window.
"We should see someone," he said.
She didn't answer.
"I know this is hard. I know you're not okay. And that's okay."
Still, silence.
He turned to her. "Please, Shantel. I'm worried."
She looked at him. Really looked at him—for the first time in days.
And he saw it.
The storm. The rage.
The guilt.
The heartbreak.
"I don't know how to be her mother," she said finally.
"You already are."
She shook her head. "I don't feel it. I don't feel anything."
He reached for her hand, and this time, she didn't pull away.
But she didn't squeeze back, either.