It’s been four days since I gave birth.
Four days since my baby—whom I had long awaited with prayers and hopes—left me before I could even hold him properly.
Four days since my body felt empty, and my heart even emptier.
And yet, in these four days, my husband hasn’t once asked how I am. Not once.
I remember so clearly, when the contractions grew stronger, my trembling hands typed a short message on WhatsApp:
“Mas… I’m entering the delivery room. Please pray that the baby and I will be safe and healthy.”
The message was read, but it wasn’t answered until four hours later, after I had already given birth.
“Okay… which hospital?”
That was all. No question about how I was, no concern for how our baby was doing.
I sent him a photo—our tiny baby who had breathed only briefly. I also told him the hospital’s name. I waited… hoping for warmth, even just a little. But there was no reply.
Since then, I’ve carried everything on my own.
Handling the hospital paperwork, signing the death certificate, carrying my baby’s small body wrapped in white cloth, and taking him to the cemetery. All with trembling hands, a body still in pain, and a heart that felt numb.
Does my husband know his own flesh and blood has died? I don’t know. I chose not to tell him—why should I? He never even asked about us.
Instead, I posted a WhatsApp status: a pair of yellow baby socks that belonged to Ell, never worn. Let people wonder. Maybe he saw it, maybe he didn’t. He turned off the blue ticks anyway.
Did I try to call him? No. I’m too tired of being a beggar before him—begging for attention, for love, for just a little care.
The nights feel endless. My body still aches, but it’s my heart that hurts the most. I stare at those tiny yellow socks for so long, as if Ell were still here, waiting for me to smile.
But what remains is silence. A silence my husband has never tried to break.
Photo by Aditya Romansa on Unsplash
