Chapter 3 - THE BREAKING POINT
For the next two hours, I lived through a feverish nightmare.
My body was screaming for rest, but the social pressure in that house was suffocating. Every time I tried to sit on a kitchen stool, Darlene would walk in with another task.
"Maren, the gravy needs stirring!" "Maren, why aren't the potatoes peeled yet?" "Maren, Uncle Bob needs another glass of iced tea!"
I stood over the stove, steam rising into my face, my vision occasionally blurring into gray spots. I had to pump milk every three hours to maintain my supply for the triplets, but every time I asked to use the guest bedroom, Darlene scoffed.
"You're going to lock yourself in a room for forty minutes while the rolls burn?" she sneered in front of Grant’s aunt, Suzanne. "Can't that wait until we eat?"
"No, it can't wait!" I said, my voice shaking with desperation. "My breasts are engorged and painful! If I don't pump, I could get an infection!"
Suzanne chuckled awkwardly. "Oh, Maren, in our day we just pushed through it. You young mothers are so sensitive."
I looked at Grant, who was sitting at the dining table laughing at a sports video on his phone with his brother Brad. He hadn't checked on me once. He hadn't brought me a glass of water. He was completely enjoying his holiday while I was being treated like unpaid, crippled kitchen labor.
At 11:15 a.m., my phone chimed in my pocket. It was an automated text reminder from Henrico Doctors' Hospital:
Reminder: NICU visitation window for Parents of Whitlock Triplets is open. Nurse Sarah is available for update.
I stared at the screen. Eleven o'clock was when Grant had promised to take me to the hospital.
I turned off the burner under the cranberry sauce, wiped my hands on an apron, and walked straight into the dining room. I grabbed Grant by the elbow.
"It's 11:15," I said, my voice dead serious. "We are leaving. Right now. You promised to take me to see Arden, Piper, and Miles."
Grant groaned, turning his phone off. "Maren, look around. The turkey just went into the oven an hour ago! We can't leave now!"
"I don't care about the turkey!" I shouted, finally breaking the unspoken rule of keeping my voice down. The entire dining room went dead silent. Conversations froze. "I care about my children! They are lying in plastic boxes in an intensive care unit! I haven't held my sons yet, Grant! Not once!"
Darlene immediately marched into the room, wiping her hands on a napkin, her face twisted in theatrical outrage.
"Maren! How dare you raise your voice at my son in my home!" Darlene boomed. "He has been working all week taking care of you! The least you can do is let him enjoy Thanksgiving with his family!"
"I AM HIS FAMILY!" I screamed back, tears finally streaming down my face. "Me and our three babies! Not your Thanksgiving dinner! Not your twenty guests!"
Grant stood up quickly, his face flushed red with humiliation. He grabbed my upper arm—hard—and leaned down to my ear. "Stop embarrassing me, Maren. You look insane right now."
"Release my arm, Grant," I whispered, staring into his eyes. I barely recognized the man standing in front of me.
"You are staying here, you are finishing dinner, and we will go to the hospital at four o'clock like normal people!" Grant hissed under his breath. "Do not ruin this day for my mother."
"If I stay here," I said, my voice trembling with a terrifying calm, "I am going to collapse. I am bleeding, Grant. I can feel it."
Grant looked down at my sweatpants. A small dark stain was beginning to spread near the waistband where my incision was. For a split second, a flash of fear crossed his eyes, but then he looked at his mother, who was tapping her foot impatiently.
"It's just spotty discharge," Grant lied, turning back to me, trying to downplay it. "You're fine. Go lie down on the couch for fifteen minutes, then come back and mash the potatoes."
That was the moment. The exact second something inside me died. The eight years of marriage, the shared dreams, the promises made over hospital beds—it all evaporated into thin air.
I didn't argue. I didn't cry anymore.
"Okay," I said quietly.
I walked slowly back toward the hallway where my coat, purse, and milk cooler were sitting. Darlene watched me like a hawk.
"Where are you going?" Darlene demanded.
May you like
"To the bathroom," I replied without turning around.
I walked down the hall, past the bathroom, straight to the front door. I pulled open the heavy wooden door, stepped out into the crisp, forty-five-degree November air, and slammed the door shut behind me.
