Why Is She Screaming Again?

“Why is your daughter screaming again?!” The words ripped through the paper-thin walls, searing my nerves raw. I froze, clutching my burning, sweaty little girl to my chest. Her feverish body trembled in my arms, but it was my mother-in-law’s voice that shook me more.

“She’s sick, Mrs. Parker. She has a fever,” I tried to explain, my voice barely above a whisper. My own exhaustion made my words slur, but I forced myself to stand straighter in the kitchen, hoping maybe this time she’d show a shred of kindness.

“That’s not my problem,” she snapped, glaring over her bifocals. “This house was peaceful before you two moved in. You let that child scream all day and night!”

I didn’t answer. I wanted to scream back, to tell her that her son—the man who promised to stand by me—was working double shifts at the auto shop, barely home, barely present, and more tired than I was. But I just pressed my lips together and rocked my daughter, Lucy, as she whimpered.

Lucy was only two. Her world was small and loud and scary. Our world, though, was even scarier: a cramped ranch house on the edge of Columbus, Ohio, where we lived not by choice but by necessity, after Jake lost his job and the bills piled higher than the snow outside. Mrs. Parker had insisted we move in—”just until you get back on your feet.” I don’t think she ever expected us to make it.

The day we arrived with boxes and a toddler, she pointed at the guest room and said, “Don’t touch the china cabinet, and keep the noise down.”

“I’m trying,” I whispered now, more to myself than to her as she stalked off. Lucy’s cries softened into hiccups. I pressed my forehead to hers, whispering, “Shh, baby. Mama’s here. I’ve got you.”

But did I? Did I have anything under control? My hands shook as I rummaged for the thermometer. One-oh-two point seven. I dialed Jake, desperate, but his phone went straight to voicemail.

By sundown, the house was thick with tension. Mrs. Parker banged pots in the kitchen, muttering about “useless girls” and “crying babies.” I tried to feed Lucy, but she pushed away her applesauce, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. I was running on two hours of sleep and cold coffee. I texted my sister, Allie: I can’t do this. I’m failing.

She replied: You are NOT failing. She’s sick, not bad. Can you get out for a walk?

Mrs. Parker’s voice rose again from the living room. “Are you going to let her cry all night?” she barked, as if I was choosing this, as if I enjoyed watching my child suffer.

I carried Lucy into the bathroom, locked the door, and let myself cry for the first time in days. I pressed a wet washcloth to Lucy’s forehead, humming old lullabies under the harsh fluorescent light. I heard Mrs. Parker’s footsteps pause outside. “You need to toughen up, Laura,” she called through the door. “When Jake was a baby, he never cried like that.”

Something inside me cracked. I wanted to scream, to tell her about the time Jake had pneumonia and she left him shivering in his crib, or how he still flinched at loud noises. But I stayed silent, afraid any confrontation would get us kicked out—and then where would we go?

When Jake got home, it was late. He looked worn, oil stains on his jeans and dark circles under his eyes. He kissed Lucy’s forehead, then mine. “She’s burning up. Should we take her to urgent care?”

“Your mom thinks I’m exaggerating,” I said, my voice shaking. “She said you never cried.”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “She’s always been like that. Don’t let her get to you.”

“She talks about us like we’re strangers. Like Lucy isn’t her granddaughter.”

He sat beside me on the edge of the bed, our backs to the closed door. “We’ll get out of here soon. I promise.”

But promises don’t pay rent. Promises don’t bring down a fever. Promises don’t shield you from the judgment of a woman who thinks a mother’s love is weakness.

The next morning, Lucy’s fever broke. I felt relief so sharp it made me dizzy. Jake left for work before sunrise, and I tried to clean up, hoping Mrs. Parker would notice, would maybe say something nice. Instead, she found me in the kitchen, wiping down the counters.

“So, the baby finally shut up?” She poured herself coffee, not meeting my eyes. “Maybe now I can get some sleep.”

“She’s feeling better,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Thank you for letting us stay.”

She snorted. “Don’t thank me yet. You still have a lot to learn about being a mother.”

I thought about all the things she never saw: the midnight rocking, the cool baths, the way I counted each breath Lucy took. I thought about how alone I felt, even surrounded by family. I thought about the job interviews I’d failed, the friends I’d lost touch with, the dreams I’d put on hold.

That night, after Lucy fell asleep, I sat on the porch steps, breathing in the cold air. I texted Allie again: Still here. Still standing.

She replied: You’re stronger than you think. Love you.

I stared up at the wide Ohio sky, clutching the baby monitor, listening to the quiet. For now, there was peace. For now, I was enough.

I wonder—how many other mothers are out there, holding it all together in someone else’s house, afraid to cry too loudly? How do you keep going when every day feels like a test you might fail?