‘The irony is that I wanted people to look out for postpartum psychosis. I wanted you to look out for it. You knew that, from the meetings.’
Romilly has her hands on her hips. Paces beneath the posters.
‘I would have thought it would be something you would want to embrace, to be honest.’
My voice sounds sharp and surprises me.
But wouldn’t you?
‘At least then people might be more sympathetic about you leaving your newborn,’ I mutter. ‘There’s been a lot of … judgement, Romilly. Until I tell people about your condition.’
This gets her.
My wife shrinks.
I cannot see the expression on her face as her head is bent low. Shame? Or anger? Something dark, for sure. My mellow Romilly, padding in in her flip-flops sprinkling on her chia seeds, is a figure from the past now. This version is a wreck.
I wait it out.
‘I never meant to,’ she says quietly.
‘How can you not mean to leave a baby?’
Fleur starts to mew then, lightly from the corner of the room. Probably the heat – this house a sauna.
‘We were coming back for her,’ she whispers. ‘But you interrupted.’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Let’s be clear. I don’t blame you for this. Delusions are part of the psychosis. They are—’
‘I showed Adam the texts you sent me. I. Do. Not. Have. Postpartum. Psychosis.’
‘I don’t know what messages you mean,’ I say.
She goes to get her phone. Scans back. And it breaks me, watching how deep this goes. How much she truly believes it.
‘They were here.’
I see it cross her face then. Doubt. I touch her arm. Speak gently. ‘People who have psychosis are very unlikely to be able to perceive it in themselves,’ I say, a parrot for Google. ‘They are—’
‘I. Do. Not. Have. Postpartum. Psychosis.’
But her tone, now, is less certain.