Those were the first words that reached me when I entered our bedroom and found my wife barely conscious, while our newborn son cried helplessly beside her. My name is Elias Weber.
I live in a suburb of Frankfurt and work as an operations manager for a regional freight company.
My wife, Hannah Weber, had given birth to our first child, Oskar, less than a week earlier. She was still recovering from the delivery, moving cautiously around the house and hiding her pain behind a weary smile. My mother, Patricia Weber, had never really accepted Hannah.
In her eyes, Hannah was too independent, too opinionated, and nowhere near good enough for her beloved son. My younger sister, Charlotte, eagerly echoed every insult.
Her bitterness had been growing for months before Oskar was born, ever since my mother urged me to use my savings to buy a house that would legally belong solely to her. “That way, it stays in the family,” she kept insisting. “Wives come and go. Mothers don’t.” Hannah refused to agree to the plan. “I won’t risk our child’s future just to please someone who treats me like an enemy,” she told me tearfully one evening. Instead of truly listening to her, I dismissed her fears. I told myself she was blowing things out of proportion. When our son was finally born, I foolishly believed that the role of grandmother would soften my mother’s heart. For a few days, it almost seemed I was right. Patricia brought flowers to the hospital, kissed Oskar on the forehead, and promised to help in any way she could. Three days later, an emergency at one of our company’s branches forced me to make an unexpected trip to another state. The timing couldn’t have been worse. But my mother quickly offered to stay with Hannah. “Go and take care of your work,” she said warmly. “I’ve raised children before. Your wife just needs a little guidance.” Charlotte laughed. “We’ll survive a few days without you. Don’t act like you’re abandoning her forever.” Hannah stood motionless beside the hospital bed. The look in her eyes pleaded with me not to go. But I went anyway. Over the next three days, I called again and again. Each time, my mother answered the phone. She said Hannah was sleeping. She said Oskar was feeding well. She claimed everything was completely under control. When Hannah finally came to the phone, her voice sounded weak and frightened. “Elias… please come home.” My stomach knotted. “What’s wrong?” Before she could answer, my mother took the phone from her. “It’s nothing,” she said with a laugh. “New mothers just get emotional.” Something felt wrong. On the fourth day, I decided to return without telling anyone. I bought diapers, pastries from Hannah’s favorite bakery, and a small green blanket for Oskar. As I turned into the driveway, the front door was standing slightly ajar. The house smelled stale. The television was blaring in the living room. Patricia and Charlotte were asleep on the sofa under a pile of blankets. Dirty dishes were scattered across every surface. A cold dread crept down my spine. I rushed to the bedroom. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight inside. Hannah lay completely motionless on the bed. Her skin had turned gray. Her lips were dry and cracked. She looked as though she had been left alone for weeks.
