I thought I was just overwhelmed, adjusting to life as a single mom with a newborn. But when I heard laughter coming from my baby’s room and found his crib empty, I knew something was terribly wrong. I never imagined I’d be posting something like this online.
I’m not someone who overshares, and I’ve never been the type to write about my personal life, but right now, I honestly don’t know how else to process what just happened to me. My name’s Britney, but everyone calls me Brit. I’m 28 years old, living in a quiet suburb outside Columbus, Ohio.
It’s nothing fancy, just a two-bedroom rental with creaky floors and outdated kitchen tiles. It’s enough for me and my baby boy, Owen. He’s 10 months old and already has a stubborn little pout that he definitely didn’t get from me.
I work as a freelance graphic designer. The kind of job people think means I’m lounging in coffee shops or drawing flowers for fun. But it’s a lot of last-minute client calls, late-night revisions, and chasing unpaid invoices.
Add a baby into that mix, and you get someone who functions on caffeine and prayer. Owen’s dad, Mason, is 32. We divorced when Owen was just two months old, and I never thought things would turn out that way.
When I first met Mason, he was magnetic. He dressed sharply, lit up every room, and had this smooth charm with a crooked smile that could make you forget your own name. He was funny, attentive, and even brought flowers for my mom the second time he met her.
But the moment I told him I was pregnant, something in him shifted. It wasn’t sudden, not all at once. It started small.
Comments disguised as concern. “You’re not really gonna keep working this late, are you?”
“I don’t think caffeine’s good for the baby.”
“Are you sure you’re even holding him right? His neck looks unsupported.”
Then came the guilt trips.
“A real mother wouldn’t work this much.”
“I guess I’m the only one who cares about his well-being.”
I tried to push back at first, but every argument left me feeling smaller. I’d sit on the edge of our bed with my stomach stretched over my thighs, wondering if I was the one losing it. I thought it would get better once the baby came.
Sadly, it didn’t. At first, the shouting started. It was never loud enough to wake the neighbors, but it was sharp and deliberate.
Then came the silence. He only spoke when he needed something, and eventually, even that stopped. The day I filed for divorce, I walked out with Owen in his car seat, thinking I could finally breathe again.
But I was wrong. I thought leaving would bring peace. What I got instead was fear disguised as silence.
At first, I blamed it on exhaustion. I was completely worn out, barely sleeping, with my head buzzing from half-finished projects and constant diaper changes. My mom used to say I could sleep through a tornado, but that stopped being true once Owen was born.
Every creak in the house felt like a warning. Then small things started happening. One morning, I stepped out of the shower and saw Owen’s stuffed elephant lying in the hallway.
I was sure I had tucked it beside him the night before. It wasn’t a toy he carried around. It always stayed in his crib.
I stood there, dripping on the hardwood floor, staring at it like it might suddenly move. Another time, I found a baby bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. It was half full of formula.
I hadn’t made one that night. I even picked it up and sniffed it just to check. It was still warm.
My stomach twisted. But I convinced myself I was just tired. When you haven’t slept through the night in months, your brain stops keeping proper track of time.
Right? The baby monitor was the worst, and that was when things really started to mess with my head. It would glitch randomly, flickering with static even though our Wi-Fi was working fine.
I’d wake up to a faint crackling sound. One night, I swear I heard someone humming through it. A man’s voice, low and off tune, like he was trying to hum a lullaby he could barely remember.
I told my best friend Tara about it over coffee one afternoon. She and I have been close since college. She’s the kind of friend who shows up with soup when you’re sick and wine when you just need to cry.
She leaned across the table, her expression serious. “Brit, you’re running on fumes. Lack of sleep makes people hallucinate.
Maybe see a doctor?”
I forced a laugh. “You think I’m going crazy?”
“No,” she said gently. “I think you’re overwhelmed.
You’re doing everything by yourself. You haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months.”
I wanted to believe her. I really did.
But deep down, something didn’t feel right. And then came the night everything changed. It was around 3 a.m., and I remember because I had just checked my phone.
I’d been up late working on a client’s logo and finally crawled into bed around 1:30. Owen had already woken once, and I was praying I could squeeze in at least two solid hours before the next round. I was half asleep when I heard it.
It was laughter. But it wasn’t Owen’s. His laugh is soft and airy, the kind that makes your heart swell.
This was different. It was deeper, muffled, like someone was trying not to wake a sleeping house. I sat up in bed, my breath caught in my chest.
Then I heard it again. This time, it was closer. It was coming from Owen’s room.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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