Bilal Saeed
The birth of a child is a happy milestone for most people—a moment of great emotion, chaos, and beauty. All of those things and more were present when our twins arrived, but we also experienced a gradual, nagging sense of loss. It started out subtle. My partner Suzie appeared quieter than normal and more reclusive. She smiled but her eyes remained closed. Overwhelmed, nervous, and fatigued, she navigated the first few weeks of parenting like a shell of her former self. I put it down to the stress of raising twins, the lack of sleep, and the unavoidable strain that babies place on relationships.
But as the weeks went by, I realised that something more profound was upsetting her than just the infants. Something that wasn’t said. Not until it was nearly too late did I really get it.
Almost immediately after the babies were delivered, my mother had arrived to be with us. I felt it would be beneficial. Considering how little support Suzie had from her family, I thought having my mother around would help. I erred. Our house got overshadowed by my mother’s presence. She was demanding, critical, and always involved in choices pertaining to the baby. At every stage, she belittled Suzie’s decisions, questioned her intuition, and delivered nuanced insults that compounded like poison.
Initially, I failed to recognise it for what it was. Although my mother had always been challenging, I had mastered the art of navigating her moods. Suzie did not. Her capacity to handle that burden also diminished every day in the precarious position of new parenthood.
When I woke up one morning, she had left. Their diaper bag, Suzie, and our infants were all gone. Fear shot through me. I attempted to text her, phone her, and look in her typical locations. Nothin’. I left with a note stating that she needed time after I finally discovered the twins safely at home. She could not be reached, however. Days stretched until weeks.
I tried constantly to find Suzie throughout those weeks, and did what I could to take care of the twins on my own. I messaged her on social media and reached out to her friends and coworkers as well. The majority were either unwilling to disclose her location or did not know it. But at last, her buddy Sara answered.
Sara softly informed me that she felt confined. Not by you, but by the circumstances—your mum, the house, the standard of living. She was terrified of losing herself. She feared *you* would support your mother.
I was slapped by that. Was Suzie truly feeling alone because of me? Had my mother pushed her over the edge without my knowledge?
A wake-up call, it was. My mother was confronted. I eventually stood up for the lady I loved, the mother of my children, during a furious disagreement. This time, I really did mean it when I ordered her to go and give us some room. That evening she packed and went. The quiet she left behind, however, was deafening.
The time went by. As they developed, the twins learnt to crawl, then talk and laugh together at things that only they seemed to comprehend. Despite this, our house always felt empty in Suzie’s absence. I tried to be strong for them, but every bottle, every nappy change and every restless night was tinged with remorse and longing.
Months after her departure, I got a message. It was a picture and plain text. The twins were sitting in Suzie’s lap. They appeared content—slow, even. She sent a brief message: “I wish I were the kind of mother they deserve.” I wish you will pardon me.
That picture captivated me for hours. “Of course,” I said. I made an attempt to phone. Absent response. But I continued to reach out. I was aware that she was still recovering from her ordeal and processing it. Moreover, I had to honour that.
I didn’t anticipate any unusual celebrations for the twins’ first birthday. I created cupcakes. I embellished the living room. Neighbours and friends passed by. She then materialised at the door like a dream.
Standing there with a hesitant look on her face, Suzie held a modest gift. She had a stronger, healthier look. There was life in her eyes once more, however guarded. We moved to the side and gazed at one another while the world stopped for a second. Afterward, we gave each other a hug. A hug that is simultaneously filled with pain, regret, forgiveness, and comfort, not just love.
About the way my mother’s criticism reopened old wounds. About how she was afraid of losing herself, of being labelled as “crazy” or “ungrateful,” and of being left behind.
Because she didn’t love the twins, she hadn’t left. Because she loved them and didn’t want to blame them for her suffering, she had departed. Walking away, even if it broke her heart, was necessary for her to recover first.
She said therapy had helped. The absence was beneficial. Clarity came to her when she found a peaceful place to rediscover herself away from the pressure, the noise, and the terror. She was always thinking about us, too.
We started to rebuild our lives in the weeks and months that followed. It wasn’t always simple, nor was it flawless. Tears, blunders, and moments of uncertainty occurred. But there was also respect for what we had all gone through, empathy, and grace.
Picture-perfect parenting and idyllic reunions are not features of our story. Struggle, errors, bravery, and redemption are all part of it. The story illustrates how the greatest significant changes can occasionally result from the darkest experiences.
When Suzie returned, it wasn’t just her that was back in our life; it was a different Suzie and a different family. more powerful. wiser. Most importantly, it is grounded in reality.