I was standing at the entrance of our nine-story brick apartment building, a heavy duffel bag in one hand and a pale blue bundle containing my newborn son, Michael, in the other. My legs weren’t shaking from the four sleepless days in the maternity ward—they were trembling from a cold, animal terror that had settled deep in my bones.Because of the old woman.
She appeared through the thick autumn mist like something torn out of a forgotten legend—thin, sharp-boned, wrapped in a threadbare gray coat. Her fingers, wiry and shockingly strong, clamped around my arm as she leaned close, her breath thick with bitter herbs.
“Don’t go inside,” she hissed. “Call your father. Right now.”
I recoiled, instinctively tightening my hold on Mikey, shielding him with my body. Everything about her felt wrong—her eyes too sharp, too dark, too awake for someone her age. They weren’t clouded or tired; they burned with a strange inner fire, as if she saw things ordinary people didn’t.Our suburban district was full of self-proclaimed fortune-tellers who set up small folding tables near the subway. But none of them ambushed new mothers with warnings that scraped at the edges of reality.
“Please let go,” I whispered, scanning the courtyard for anyone who might help. But the space was unnervingly empty—the benches, the playground, the windows above all lifeless. A sharp October wind swept dead leaves across the wet asphalt. Somewhere above us, a crow screamed from the rooftop.It felt like the world was holding its breath.
My husband, Andrew, should have been here. He had promised the whole celebration—blue balloons, roses, a cab, the works. But this morning, just as I was packing my hospital bag, he’d called with a clipped, apologetic voice.
A sudden business trip. Denver. “Three-million-dollar contract.” “The boss insists.” “I’m heartbroken, sweetheart, but there’s no choice.”
I’d tried not to cry in the maternity ward. A nurse told me it was hormones. But I knew it wasn’t that. It was disappointment, sharp and bitter.
