The Bond - Story #1:Saturday, 12th April

This is a story about the silences no one talks about. about the spaces between words where judgment is hidden, love is entangled with control, and a mother who is just recovering from childbirth is already being measured, weighed, and quietly found lacking. It is not based on my own life. But it's true. Twelve weeks. She had been pregnant for that amount of time. Her body, still aching from the tear and stretch of delivery, moved carefully. Her mind was fragile because of the surge of hormones and the lack of sleep. But when the doorbell rang, she stood up on the couch, brushed her hair back, and smiled. It was his mother.

The grandmother. the one who smiles with a tight lip and knowing eyes. The woman who had raised him without help, without rest, without error—if her stories were to be believed.

She came bearing gifts. A hand-knitted blanket from the 1980s. A tin of biscuits. And a commentary she hadn’t been asked for.

Within the first five minutes, she stated, "You're not supporting his neck right." Oh, you wrap him up so tightly! He won’t be able to move his legs. To grow, babies need space. “You’re giving him formula? Already? That was never necessary during our time. Breast milk was enough.”

She said these things with the practiced innocence of someone who believed she was helping. The young mother nodded. Smiled. Adjusted. Said thank you. However, something in her changed with each comment. She began to tremble as she was bound to her child by an invisible, priceless thread. Later, when the visit was over and the house quiet again, she retreated to the nursery. Her partner slept in the bedroom, unaware of the quiet devastation that had taken root.

His breath was a warm rhythm against her skin as the infant lay on her chest. She let herself cry in that dim light with only the hum of the night outside. The constant, soft leaking of someone who no longer knows whether she is doing anything right, not the dramatic sobs of movies. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the doubt they planted. The manner in which they made her question her worth, choices, and instinct. The way they echoed louder than her own inner voice.

She remembered the moment she first held him. The wonder. The dread. The sudden, all-encompassing love. That was the bond. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn't neat. But it was hers.

She didn’t need to be told how to love her baby. She needed to be believed. She needed space to learn, to stumble, to mother in her own way—not in someone else’s shadow.

She didn't bring up the comments the next morning. She did not initiate a conflict. But she held her baby a little closer. She trusted herself a little more. In addition, the grandmother smiled politely and replied, "We're figuring out what works for us," when she offered yet another unwelcome piece of advice. This story isn’t about villains. It's about wounds that are passed down as wisdom. It is about the strength required to break the cycle and the subtle violence of comparison. It is intended for new mothers who, despite the fact that they are not failing, have no idea that doubt is a normal part of the process. Because sometimes the loudest voice in the room isn’t theirs, and they’re still learning how to raise both a child—and themselves—into something brave.

This is The Bond. Fragile, sacred, tested. And yet, unbreakable.