Nearly two weeks passed before William was able to bring Genevieve home from the hospital. But before they left, he quietly approached Dr. Michael Andrews, seeking answers to a silence he could no longer ignore.
"Mr. Frost," the doctor said, removing his glasses and clearing his desk, "please, have a seat."
"Thank you, Doc," William replied softly, settling into the chair.
"I've noticed… something's changed in Genevieve since she gave birth," he began, hesitant.
Dr. Andrews nodded, his tone calm, practiced. "That's normal, Mr. Frost. Emotional shifts are common after childbirth — hormonal imbalances, exhaustion, trauma."
"But Doc…" William's voice cracked. "It's been over a week. She hasn't held our child. Not once. She doesn't ask about her. It's like… she doesn't want to see her."
The doctor paused, then leaned forward. "Listen carefully, Mr. Frost. What you're describing is postpartum depression. It's often temporary, especially for first-time mothers. But if it persists beyond a month, we'll need to involve a psychiatrist."
"Is it dangerous?" William asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It depends. With counseling and medication, it can be managed. But watch her closely. If she starts talking to herself or showing signs of detachment, call me immediately. We'll arrange a full mental evaluation."
William nodded, silent. As he stood to leave, Dr. Andrews handed him a prescription.
"Take care of your wife," the doctor said gently.
That afternoon, the Frosts returned home with their newborn daughter — Lucille, a name William chose alone. In the car, Genevieve stared out the window, unmoving.
"Gen," William said softly, "don't you want to hold her? Feel her warmth?"
"My body still hurts," she replied coldly.
"But—"
"William," she snapped, "you have no idea what I went through to bring that child into the world. You didn't give birth."
William fell silent. "Okay," he whispered. "Just rest."
The next morning, neighbors saw William outside, sunning Lucille in the garden — a task usually reserved for mothers.
"Eric, is that your firstborn?" called Antonette Halliwell, passing by with a basket of vegetables.
"Yes, this is Lucille," William said proudly, though sleep clung to his eyes.
"Why are you doing that? Where's your wife?"
"She's upstairs, still recovering," he replied quickly.
Antonette smiled, sensing more but choosing silence. "Tell her I said hello."
Later that day, a familiar voice broke the quiet.
"William!"
He turned to see Mary Jane White — Genevieve's younger half-sister — standing by the gate.
"Mary Jane? When did you arrive?"
"Yesterday," she said. "Is that Lucille?"
"Yes," William smiled. "Your niece."
"May I hold her?" she asked, eyes glistening.
William gently handed her the baby.
"Hello, Lucille," Mary Jane whispered, tears forming. "I'm your Aunt Mary Jane."
William noticed the sorrow in her voice. "Where's Alfred?"
Mary Jane paused. "He left me before I gave birth. My baby… died. I never got to hold her."
William's heart sank. "I'm sorry, Mary Jane."
She smiled faintly, eyes fixed on Lucille. "She's beautiful. Like an angel."
Inside the house, William called out, "Genevieve, Mary Jane's here!"
Genevieve looked at her sister — cold, unreadable — then turned and walked back to her room.
"What's wrong with her?" Mary Jane whispered.
"Don't mind her," William said. "Come eat."
As they sat down, William watched Mary Jane cradle Lucille, singing soft lullabies — songs only mothers knew.
Days passed. Genevieve's condition worsened.
Mary Jane heard Lucille crying through the night, her wails echoing through the halls. Arguments between William and Genevieve grew louder. Mary Jane, sleepless, rose to prepare milk and soothe the child, while William tended to his wife.
One dawn, William found Mary Jane in the kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee.
"William," she said, voice trembling, "has she always been like this?"
"Mary Jane…" he hesitated.
She continued, "Motherhood is a gift. Painful, yes — but sacred. When Angela was born still, I lost myself. But I cared for myself, for her memory. If she had lived, even if Alfred left me, I'd have been okay. As long as I had her."
Tears fell down her cheeks.
William said nothing. Her words pierced him. In his mind, his father's final plea echoed: "Don't pass down the pain."
That night, the house erupted.
"You're unbelievable!" Genevieve screamed. "I'm Lucille's mother, but you act like she's yours!"
"Genevieve," Mary Jane replied, "she's been crying for hours. You didn't even check!"
"You have no right. You're not a mother!" Genevieve spat.
Mary Jane froze. Her sister's words cut deep.
"You're right. I'm not. But why? Did I choose for my child to die before I could hold her? You told me once — if you had a child, you'd love her. Where is that promise now?"
"If you're just here to meddle, leave my house!" Genevieve shouted, trembling.
Before Mary Jane could respond, Lucille's cry pierced the air — louder, sharper.
Mary Jane rushed to her, touched her forehead, and gasped. "William!" she cried, lifting the baby. "She has a fever! We need to get her to the hospital!"
She ran to her car, urgency in every step. William followed, heart pounding.
Inside the Frost home, Genevieve remained still — untouched by panic, unmoved by her daughter's pain.