Stars Hang Low Over the Wide Open Plains

Pale and puffy-faced, I stared at my own reflection in the mirror, at the angry red scar across my belly—and all I tasted was a bitter irony.

I grabbed my phone, forcing my anger down long enough to type one last message: “Jason, if you don’t come home today, we’re done.”

This time, he replied instantly: “Stop being dramatic. I’m on my way.”

Half an hour later, he finally walked in, dust still clinging to his clothes. He didn’t look at me first. He didn’t check on our daughter. Instead, he went straight for the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drained it in one go, and let out a long, weary sigh. “Exhausted,” he muttered. “The main breaker at Angela’s place was a nightmare to fix.”

Michelle’s crying had turned hoarse, her little face flushed crimson.

I pointed toward the crib, my voice trembling. “She’s been crying for almost an hour. How could you not hear her?”

Only then did he walk over, clumsily scooping Michelle up. He bounced her a couple of times, impatience sharpening his tone. “Cry, cry, cry. Is that all you know? What’s your mother even doing?”

My temper snapped. “Jason! How dare you? I had a C-section six days ago! The incision still hurts! I can barely get out of bed—how am I supposed to ‘do’ anything? Where the hell have you been, playing father?”

My shout caught him off guard. Then his own anger flared. “Debra, be reasonable, will you? I’m out there working my ass off to support this family. I’m tired too. You’re at home all day, resting with the baby. What more do you want?”

Resting?

The word felt like a dull blade sawing through my heart.

The searing pain of torn stitches. The sharp ache of engorged milk. The cramping contractions, and the bone-deep exhaustion of caring for a newborn around the clock… and in his eyes, that was *resting*?

Shaking, I jabbed a finger toward the door. “Get out. I don’t want to see you.”

He turned, still holding Michelle, and headed for the kitchen. “Fine! I’m going! You’re impossible!”

The door slammed shut with a bang.

The noise startled Michelle, and her cries pitched higher, more desperate.

I couldn’t hold myself up any longer. Collapsing against the bedside, I sobbed until I could barely breathe.

That’s when I heard it—a crash from the kitchen, followed by a scream from Michelle so shrill and piercing it froze the blood in my veins.

My heart dropped. Ignoring the pain, I rolled off the bed and scrambled toward the kitchen on hands and knees.

The scene that greeted me stopped my heart.

Jason was frantically righting a toppled kettle. Scalding water pooled across the floor.

And on Michelle’s tiny calf, an angry red burn was already spreading.

“Michelle!” The scream tore from my throat. I lunged forward and snatched her up.

Jason panicked, his words tumbling over each other. “I—I was just trying to make her bottle, my hand slipped… I didn’t mean to…”

Looking at my daughter’s contorted little face, a knife twisted in my chest. Only one thought cut through the panic: *Hospital. Now.*

I clutched Michelle tight and made for the door, but Jason blocked my path. “Debra, wait, it’s not that bad. It’s just a little red. We can run it under cold water. The hospital’s too much trouble.”

“Move!” My eyes were wild, burning. A lioness defending her cub. “Jason, if anything happens to her, I swear to God, I will end you.”