She took a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around mine like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.

I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I left because I thought I was protecting you.”

The words landed wrong. They always do.

My dad shifted in his chair. I felt it more than I saw it — the tension, the weight he’d been carrying for nearly two decades.

“Protecting me from what?” I asked.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were wet, but steady.

From me,” she said.

The machines hummed louder in the silence that followed.

“I was sick,” she continued. “Not physically. Not then. I had severe postpartum psychosis. The kind they don’t talk about enough. Hallucinations. Delusions. I was convinced I was dangerous to you.”

My chest tightened.

“They wanted to put me on medication immediately,” she said. “But I refused. I told myself I could handle it. I couldn’t. I started having thoughts — terrifying ones. Thoughts about hurting you without meaning to. About losing control.”

The night after you were born, I begged the nurse not to leave you alone with me. I begged your father to take you. I knew if I stayed… something awful might happen.”

looked at my dad. His eyes were glossy now.

“She didn’t abandon you,” he said quietly, finally speaking. “She ran because she was terrified of herself