Husband Schemes to Sell Baby

The sun was barely filtering through the curtains when Mara knocked and entered my bedroom without waiting for a response. Three days into my postpartum recovery, and I'd already learned that privacy was a luxury I no longer possessed.

"Good morning, Violet!" Her cheerfulness felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves. "Time to work on feeding that beautiful baby girl!"

I shifted uncomfortably in bed, wincing as the movement pulled at my C-section incision. The area where she'd spilled scalding water yesterday still throbbed beneath its bandage. An accident, she'd claimed. Bennett had believed her without question.

"I've been thinking," Mara continued, setting down a strange contraption on my nightstand. "Your milk production could be better."

I frowned, instinctively defensive. "The lactation consultant at the hospital said I was doing fine."

"Hospital staff say that to everyone." She waved dismissively. "They don't want to discourage new mothers. But your baby deserves optimal nutrition, doesn't she?"

The device she'd brought looked nothing like the modern breast pump the hospital had recommended. This was metal and glass, with rubber tubing that reminded me of something from a Victorian medical museum.

"What is that?" I asked, unable to keep the apprehension from my voice.

"A traditional pump. Much more effective than those modern plastic devices." She picked it up, demonstrating the manual lever. "My grandmother was a midwife. These old methods produce twice the milk in half the time."

Something felt wrong. Deeply wrong. "I don't think—"

"You want the best for your daughter, don't you?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, her tone shifting to something harder. "Some mothers just aren't willing to endure a little discomfort for their children's wellbeing."

The accusation stung. Was I being selfish? The exhaustion and hormones made it hard to think clearly.

"Fine," I relented. "But just for a minute."

I should have trusted my instincts. The moment she attached the device, pain shot through my breast like lightning. It wasn't just uncomfortable—it was agonizing.

"Stop!" I gasped, trying to pull away. "That hurts!"

"Beauty through pain," Mara said, continuing to operate the pump with methodical precision. "Just a bit longer."

Tears sprang to my eyes as she increased the suction. "Please, stop!"

When she finally removed it, I looked down in horror. Blood stained my nightgown where the device had broken the skin. The tissue was already bruising, torn by the aggressive suction.

"Oh!" Mara's hand flew to her mouth in what looked like rehearsed shock. "I had no idea you were so sensitive!"

My cry of pain must have carried through the house because Bennett appeared in the doorway, his expression alarmed. But instead of rushing to my side, his eyes fixed on Mara.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Before I could speak, Mara's eyes welled with tears. "I was just trying to help with milk production. I never meant to hurt her. I feel terrible!"

To my disbelief, Bennett crossed the room and placed his hand on Mara's shoulder. "It's okay," he soothed. "Accidents happen."

I sat there, bleeding and traumatized, while my husband comforted my abuser. The realization crashed over me like ice water: this wasn't an isolated incident. The scalding water. Now this. These weren't accidents.

That evening, unable to sleep from the pain in my chest, I dragged myself to the kitchen for more pain medication. Voices from around the corner stopped me.

"When this is all over," Bennett was saying, his voice tender in a way I hadn't heard in months, "we can start fresh together."

"I know," Mara replied softly. "Just a little longer."

I stepped forward, the floorboard creaking beneath my weight. They fell silent immediately.

"Violet!" Bennett's tone changed completely. "You should be resting."

"What were you talking about?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"Your care plan," Mara answered smoothly. "Bennett's concerned you might need more specialized attention."

Later, when I confronted Bennett alone, his reaction chilled me to the bone.

"You're eavesdropping now?" he snapped. "The medication is making you paranoid, Violet. We were discussing your recovery timeline. Nothing more."

But I'd heard them. I knew what I'd heard.

As the days passed, Mara's true nature emerged more boldly. She intercepted phone calls from my friends, claiming I was resting. She convinced Bennett that visitors would "introduce unnecessary germs" and "disrupt my healing process."

"Some women just don't bounce back the way they used to," she remarked casually while helping me dress. "Your body may never be what it was before."

Later, when the baby cried and I struggled to reach her crib, Mara watched from the doorway before asking, "Are you really ready to handle a baby's needs? You can barely take care of yourself."

Each comment was a knife, precisely aimed at my deepest insecurities. Each day, the walls closed in tighter around me. But as Mara's cruelty grew more obvious, so did my certainty: this was no ordinary postpartum care.

This was something far more sinister.