Chapter 2The Price of My Life: Billing My Mother-In-Law

On my third day postpartum, Martha came by.

Not to see me.

The first thing she said when she walked in was, "I looked into a postpartum doula. Twelve thousand a month, that's way too expensive. I'll just take care of you during your recovery. Save us some money."

I didn't say anything.

She continued, "And that postpartum rehab package you wanted? Eighteen hundred dollars? Don't bother. Women in the old days never did any of that 'postpartum rehab' nonsense, and they turned out just fine."

I stared at her.

Eighteen hundred dollars.

On the third day after I almost died, she was here to haggle over my recovery.

"You're healthy, you'll bounce back quick," she said with a smile. "We'll save that money for the baby."

I stayed silent.

I had heard that exact phrasing before.

During my first year of marriage, I wanted to join a yoga studio. The annual membership was three hundred bucks.

Martha had said, "Why do you need to pay for classes? Just do it at home. Save that money; having a kid is expensive."

Three hundred bucks.

That same year, for her daughter Sarah's birthday, Martha bought her a $4,800 designer bag. She even opened the package right in front of me.

I hadn't said a word.

Three hundred versus eighteen hundred—the numbers changed, but the principle remained the same.

My money wasn't real money; only her daughter's money mattered.

We didn't hire a doula. Martha came to "take care" of me.

Her version of taking care of me consisted of:

Cooking breakfast, microwaving the leftovers for lunch, and David bringing home takeout for dinner.

When the baby cried at night, Martha didn't get up. "I'm older, I don't sleep well. You handle the night shifts."

I was just a week out from a massive hemorrhage. My incision still ached terribly. I had to get up every two hours to nurse.

And David?

He slept in the guest room.

"I have to work tomorrow, I need to sleep."

No one ever asked, "How are you doing? Does your incision still hurt?"

On the fifth day, I spiked a low-grade fever.

100.7 degrees.

I told David.

He said, "Just take some Tylenol. You're breastfeeding, you can't go to the hospital anyway."

Then he left for work.

Martha was in the living room watching TV.

I took my own temperature, took the medicine myself, and filled a thermos with hot water to keep by my bed.

The fever broke that afternoon.

No one knew.

And no one cared.

That afternoon, while the baby was sleeping, I propped myself up against the headboard and scrolled through my phone.

David had posted on Facebook:

"Welcomed our baby boy! Both mother and son are safe and healthy. Thank you everyone for the well wishes!"

Attached was a picture of the baby.

No picture of me.

The comments were flooded with "Congratulations!" and "David's a dad now!"

David replied to every single one with smiley face emojis.

Both mother and son are safe and healthy.

He used those exact words.

As if I were merely an incubator. Now that my function was complete, the incubator itself was irrelevant.

I set the phone down next to my pillow.

No 'like'.

No comment.

I got up and changed a diaper.

On my twelfth day postpartum.

David's sister, Sarah, came to visit.

She brought a case of imported formula, a set of baby clothes, and a pile of colorful gift bags that covered the entire table.

She held the baby, gave him a few kisses, and chatted and laughed with Martha.

No one called me out of my room.

From the bedroom, I heard Martha ask, "This formula looks fancy. How much was it?"

Sarah replied, "About eighty bucks a can."

Martha said, "It's a little pricey, but it's good quality. We should give the baby the best."

Eighty dollars a can for formula, and she says, "give the baby the best."

Eighteen hundred for my postpartum rehab, and she says, "women in the old days never did that."

Twelve thousand for a doula, and she says, "way too expensive."

Spending money on the baby? Acceptable.

Spending money on her daughter? Acceptable.

Spending money on me? Too expensive.

I sat in the bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar, and the sound of laughter from the living room drifted in waves.

I looked down at my hands. My nails were clipped short, and the skin on my fingertips was peeling from constantly washing baby bottles in hot water.

I tucked my hands under the blanket.

When Sarah left, she walked past my bedroom door, peeked her head in, and said, "Rest up and get better soon, Mia!"

Her tone was light and cheerful.

She didn't step inside.

The door clicked shut.