When He Plotted My Postpartum Depression

On the fifteenth day after I gave birth, I received a text from an unknown number.

It was a photo.

My husband Martinez and a woman lying in my bed, covered with my wedding quilt.

Below the photo was a line of text: Your husband says you're loose and ugly after giving birth. He doesn't even want to touch you.

I showed the photo to Martinez. He glanced at it and frowned.

"You went through my phone?"

I froze.

He cheated, and he blamed me for checking his phone.

The nanny stood at the door holding the baby, wanting to say something but holding back.

My mother-in-law Antony leaned back on the sofa, sipping red wine. "Men will be men. It's normal for them to play around outside. Just focus on taking care of the baby and stop being paranoid all the time."

Everyone thought I should just endure it.

I didn't argue or make a scene. I put down my phone and continued eating my postpartum recovery meal.

They didn't know that my phone contained all the evidence from the past year.

They didn't know I'd been waiting for this day for a long time.

They didn't know... my mom was a judge.

The hospital I chosethe attending physician was my mom's best friend, Laura.

Three days after giving birth, I obtained Martinez's paternity test results, along with records of his company's tax evasion.

He thought I was helpless and isolated.

He didn't know that behind me stood an entire legal front line.

I noticed something was off with Martinez on the seventh day postpartum.

That day, my episiotomy wound still hurt. I lay in bed, unable to even turn over without difficulty.

He was on the balcony taking a call, his voice lowered.

"Babe, just wait a little longer. Once she gets through these few weeks of postpartum recovery, I'll take you out."

"Her? She's gained twenty pounds now. She's like a pig. I feel sick just looking at her."

I closed my eyes, pretending I hadn't heard.

Pretending I hadn't heard my own husband describe me that way to someone else.

On the tenth day postpartum, my phone rang.

Unknown number, iMessage.

I opened the first onea photo of Martinez kissing a woman in a car.

The second showed them sitting in the Western restaurant I often went to, eating my favorite steak.

The third showed them lying in the wedding bed I'd personally chosen. The woman was wearing my silk nightgown.

Below was a line of text: "Your husband says I look way better in it than you do."

I stared at the screen. My fingers trembled, but my mind was unusually calm.

I saved the photos into an encrypted folder.

On the thirteenth day postpartum, another unknown number sent me a message.

This time it was a video.

In the video, Martinez and a woman were embracing in a VIP private room.

The woman smiled at the camera: "Look how much your husband dotes on me. He says your body's all out of shape after giving birth, and he never plans to touch you again."

I saved the video and transferred it to the encrypted folder.

There was already a lot stored there.

Screenshot chat logs, credit card statements, hotel check-in records, dashcam audio recordings.

Everything was organized clearly, marked with dates and locations.

On the fifteenth day postpartum, the mistress sent me her first high-definition face photo.

She sat in my living room, legs crossed, drinking the coffee I bought.

The photo was captured from the surveillance camera in the living room... the one I installed when I was pregnant to watch the cat.

I never expected it would capture a wildcat.

Below the photo, she sent me a message.

"Your husband says he's taking me to Hawaii in a couple days. What do you thinkwhich swimsuit should I wear?"

I stared at the photo for a long time.

She smiled arrogantly, her face directly facing the camera, without the slightest attempt at concealment, as if declaring her sovereignty.

I saved the photo.

Then I used another phone to send my best friend Bella a message.

"Bella, I need you to help me look someone up."

Bella was a cybersecurity engineer. Three seconds later she replied: "Tell me."

I sent her the mistress's profile picture.

"Help me find out everything about this person. Name, workplace, home address, assets under her name."

"Who is this?"

"The person destroying my marriage."

"Give me three hours."

Three hours later, Bella sent me a folder. It contained all of the woman's information.

Her name was Susan, twenty-three years old, a receptionist at some company. Married. Had a two-year-old daughter.

She'd been sued last year for defaulting on credit cards. No house or car under her name, renting in the low-income housing area in the north of the city.

I read through it line by line, memorizing all the key information.

Then I sent Bella another message.

"Bella, help me check Martinez's bank statements. I need to know how much money he transferred to Susan."

"How much did he transfer?"

"Every single transaction. Time, amount, purpose."

"Are you preparing to go to court for a divorce?"

I touched the incision on my abdomen. The scar from the C-section was still scabbing.

"No." I typed.

"I'm going to send them to prison."

On the twentieth day postpartum, Martinez didn't come home until 3 a.m.

Reeking of alcohol and perfume.

He collapsed beside me, back turned toward me, and soon started snoring.

I didn't wake him.

I got out of bed carefully and picked up his phone from the nightstand.

I'd memorized the password long agohis birthday.

I opened iMessage. The pinned conversationSusan.

I scrolled through the chat history for half an hour.

The more I scrolled, the more my hands trembled.

"When is she going to get lost? I'm so sick of living in this dump."

"What's the rush? Wait until we trick that house under her name into our hands. I've got her completely under control right now."

"You don't still have feelings for her, do you?"

"Feelings my ass. Fat and slovenly, walking around in that ratty nightgown all day. I feel disgusted just looking at her."

"Then why do you still sleep in the same bed with her?"

"How else can I keep her stable? Her mom has a connection, someone with a project I need. Once I get that contract, I'll kick her out immediately."

I took screenshots. Then I kept scrolling.

I found something even more chilling.

Martinez's message to Susan: "Don't let her go to that postpartum recovery personal training class. Provoke her some more, best if you can push her into postpartum depression."

"That way we can claim she has mental issues and we won't even have to fight her for custody."

"You're so ruthless. The child is yours, after all."

"Once I get custody, my mom can take care of the kid. Then we can have as many kids as you want."

I put the phone back on the nightstand.

Then I got up and walked to the balcony. At 4 a.m., the city lights were dim and yellow.

I stood there for a long time. The C-section wound throbbed dully, and my breasts ached from engorgement.

I covered my mouth and cried silently.

Not from feeling wronged, but from cold.

A cold that seeped out from the marrow of my bones.

That man who had been married to me for three years, who picked out the wedding bed with me, decorated our new home together, tied my shoelaces when I was pregnant... he was conspiring with his mistress about how to push me into postpartum depression.

How to take my child away, how to drain me dry and then kick me aside.

When I finished crying, I wiped away my tears.

Then I picked up my phone and called my mom.

At 4 a.m., my mom was woken up, her voice still heavy with sleep.

"Hello? Ulysses, what's wrong? Is the baby sick?"

"Mom." I heard my own voice, surprisingly calm. "I want a divorce."

Three seconds of silence on the other end.

Then my mom's voice became completely alert.

"What happened?"

"Martinez is cheating. He's plotting with his mistress to push me into postpartum depression, to take the baby."

"Is the evidence solid?"

"Solid."

My mom was silent for another two seconds.

When she spoke again, her voice was no longer that of a mother, but the professional tone of someone who'd been a judge for twenty years.

"Alright. From now on, do exactly as I say. First, don't share a bed with him anymore. Second, back up all evidence in triplicate. Third..."

"Third?"

"I'm coming to get you tomorrow."

The next morning, my mom arrived right on time.

She didn't ring the doorbell, just used the key I'd given her to open the door.

Martinez was still asleep.

Antony was in the kitchen making porridge. When she saw my mom come in, she froze.

"Lester, so early..."

My mom ignored her and walked straight into the bedroom, yanking Martinez out from under the covers.

Martinez was pulled awake, dazed for a few seconds.

"Mom? How did you..."

My mom threw the printed chat logs in his face.

The papers scattered across the bed.

"What is this?"

Martinez picked up one sheet, glanced at it, and his face instantly went white.

"Mom, let me explain... this is... someone photoshopped this... someone's trying to frame me..."

Antony came running in after hearing the commotion and picked up a sheet of paper.

After reading it, her expression changed several times.

But the words she spoke completely froze my heart.

"Lester, I know about this. I've met that girl. She's quite decent."

"This whole thingI told Martinez to find someone on the side."

My arms holding the baby tightened.

My mom turned around and stared at Antony.

"What did you say?"

Antony wiped the soup ladle on her apron, speaking with complete self-righteousness:

"Ulysses has been so moody since giving birth, treating Martinez like he doesn't exist. Martinez is a manhe has needs."

"Besides, Susan said she doesn't want any title or status, she just likes Martinez."

"Martinez hasn't cut Ulysses's household allowance. Men will be menit's normal for them to play around outside."

She was still smiling. My mom stared at her, then spoke, her tone cold as ice.

"Are you saying you procured a prostitute for your own son?"

Antony's smile instantly froze.

"You... what are you saying? What prostitute..."

"No need to explain." My mom cut her off, her voice devoid of warmth.

"Martinez committed adultery during marriage and maintained an improper relationship with a third party. Your entire family knew, condoned it, and even covered it up."

"These chat records and transfer receiptsI've already submitted everything to the court."

Antony's face turned ashen.

Martinez panicked: "Mom... Mom, don't listen to her nonsense. Susan and I have nothing going on, really nothing..."

My mom didn't even glance at him, turning to me instead.

"Ulysses, is everything packed?"

"All packed."

I pulled the suitcase I'd packed from behind the closet.

Actually, I'd packed it long agoon the tenth day postpartum, the night I received the first photo.

I held the baby in one arm and dragged the suitcase with the other, heading out.

Martinez rushed over to block me.

"Ulysses! Don't be ungrateful!"

Antony was shrieking behind him.

"Let her go! Leave the baby! A Martinez grandson can't be taken away by her!"

I turned to look at her.

"A Martinez grandson?"

I pulled out a sheet of paper from my bag and threw it in front of her.

"Look carefully. This is a paternity test."

"The child has absolutely nothing to do with the Martinez family."

Antony froze. Martinez froze too.

I held the baby and walked out that door.

The baby was asleep in my arms, little face pressed against my chest, warm.

I heard my own heartbeat, steady and strong.

Sitting in my mom's car, I looked at that door one last time.

My mom started the car and asked me.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"It's going to be hard from here on."

"I know." I looked at the sleeping baby in my arms.

"But I have no way back."

The car slowly drove out of the complex.

That door behind methe door I'd spent three years of my youth going in and out ofgrew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

I withdrew my gaze.

Then I took out a USB drive from my bag. It contained all the evidence.

Chat records, transfer receipts, hotel check-in records, phone recordings, and the detailed accounts of Martinez's company's tax evasion.

Over three hundred gigabytes total. I gripped the USB drive tightly.

"Mom, help me schedule a lawyer."

"Who?"

"The most expensive one."