My Family Left Me on Read So I Disappeared Forever Chapter 03

My Family Left Me on Read So I Disappeared Forever Chapter 03

After we got home from the welcome-baby luncheon, Mom started giving me the silent treatment.

She stopped yelling at me. Somehow, that was worse.

Every morning, she made breakfast for Ethan and mixed a bottle for the baby, deliberately leaving me out as if I weren’t there.

When I went into the kitchen to heat up some milk for myself, she leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Well, look at you. Finally figured out how to do something for yourself.”

On the third day, Ethan came home from work without checking on the baby first.

He turned the deadbolt, then stood in the entryway and stared at me.

“My mom called me today.”

I stared at him. “Your mom?”

“Your mother calls her every day in tears. She says you’ve been hitting her, cursing at her, and smashing things around the house.”

“When did I ever—”

“Let me finish.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but the cold control in it frightened me more than shouting ever could.

“Everyone on my mom’s side of the family knows what happened at the party. They’re all saying I married a woman with mental problems.”

He paused before continuing.

“Do you know my supervisor pulled me aside today? Someone at work heard about the scene you caused at the restaurant.”

“He told me to get my personal life under control before it started affecting my performance.”

“I didn’t cause a scene.”

“You didn’t?” His voice rose sharply. “You made your mother cry in front of a room full of people. What do you call that?”

He stepped closer and jabbed a finger in my direction.

“I’m telling you, if you’re sick, get help. But don’t take the whole family down with you.”

If you’re sick, get help.

He had said those words many times.

But he had never once offered to take me to a doctor.

On the fifth day, I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard Mom talking on the phone in the living room. Her voice was pitched just loud enough for every word to carry into the kitchen.

“Yes, exactly… She’s becoming more unstable. A few days ago, she smashed a bowl, and I didn’t even dare confront her about it.”

The bowl had slipped from my hand while I was washing it.

“I’m scared too. What if she snaps one day while she’s holding the baby…”

She paused.

“Ethan told me he can’t take much more of this either.”

My hands froze around the plate.

Who was she talking to?

I edged closer to the doorway and caught the end of the conversation.

“All right. Could you try talking to her too? She might listen to you.”

She ended the call.

I quietly returned to the sink and pretended I hadn’t heard a thing, but I knew what she was doing.

She was laying the groundwork.

On the seventh day, I woke with the sense that something was wrong.

Mom’s suitcase was gone, and her closet was empty.

The baby’s clothes, bottles, blankets, and even the mobile above his crib had disappeared.

I ran from room to room.

The living room. Our bedroom. The nursery.

Every trace of him was gone.

I called Mom.

Once. Twice. Five times.

She finally answered on the sixth attempt.

Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

“Stop looking. The baby’s with me.”

“Where did you take him?”

“I took him home with me. So what?”

“What gave you the right—”

“The right?” Her voice shot up. “You can’t even hold a bottle without dropping it. You creep around his crib in the middle of the night trying to scare him, and you’re mentally unstable!”

My entire body began to shake.

“I’m not mentally unstable. I have postpartum depression.”

“It’s all the same! Do you honestly think anyone would trust you with a baby?”

“Did Ethan agree to this?”

The line went silent for a second.

“Ask him yourself.”

I ended the call, but the phone continued trembling.

No. It was my hand.

I rushed onto the balcony and looked down.

He wasn’t at work at all. He was right downstairs.

I rushed onto the balcony and looked down.

He was leaning against the driver’s-side door of his car, talking on the phone and smiling.

I couldn’t hear him, but I could read his lips.

“Don’t worry. She can’t do anything about it.”

I staggered back and hit the balcony doorframe.

My phone vibrated again.

A new voice message had appeared in the family group chat.

Mom had sent a sixty-second recording.

I pressed play. Her voice shook with tears, but every word came through clearly.

[Everyone… I never wanted to air our family’s dirty laundry, but I can’t take it anymore.]

[Evie hasn’t been mentally well since giving birth. She’s getting more and more violent. She breaks things and hits people at home.]

[You all saw what happened at the luncheon. She completely lost control in public.]

[We were afraid she might hurt the baby, so we had no choice but to take him somewhere safe.]

[If she contacts any of you, please don’t respond. Don’t provoke her.]

Messages flooded the chat.

Uncle Tom: [Seriously? Evie was never like this before.]

Mom: [The doctor said severe postpartum depression can make people violent.]

Aunt Lily: [Then she needs treatment immediately!]

Ethan’s mother joined in.

Mrs. Whitmore: [Ethan has suffered enough too. He works all day, then comes home and has to protect himself and the baby from her.]

Aunt Mia: [I thought something seemed off about her before. The way she behaved at the luncheon was frightening.]

I stared at the screen, scrolling through message after message.

There were dozens of them, yet not one was addressed to me.

No one asked, [Evie, are you okay?]

I opened a private chat with my aunt.

[Aunt, I never hit anyone. Mom is lying.]

Five minutes later, the message was marked as read.

There was no reply.

Then I opened a private chat with Megan.

[Megan, I didn’t hit anyone. Mom is lying.]

A few minutes later, the message was marked as read too.

Still no reply.

Then I messaged my uncle.

[Uncle, I can get evaluated at a hospital. I’m not violent.]

Read.

No reply.

I sent another message.

[Uncle, I can go to a hospital and be evaluated. I’m not violent.]

This time, he responded.

[Evie, your mother is only trying to help you. Get some rest and stop overthinking everything.]

Stop overthinking.

I hated those words more than anything.

Whenever I said something was wrong, everyone told me to stop overthinking, as if all my pain existed only in my head.

I placed my phone facedown on the couch and walked onto the balcony.

The tile was spotless.

Before leaving, Mom had scrubbed away the remaining dirt stains. Not a single trace remained.

It was as though those seventeen pots of hydrangeas had never existed.

As though I had never existed either.