Chapter 1

I opened the washing machine and saw my two-month-old son lying inside.

He was already dead. His lips were blue, his tiny face swollen and lifeless.

I remembered how I was tidying up the sheets when my phone buzzed with a work call.

Panicking, I grabbed a pile of bedding and threw everything into the washer.

My son was still asleep, caught up in it all. He stayed quiet the whole time, not making a single sound, even as he died.

It wasn't until the washing machine started beeping with an error that I realized what had happened.

I grabbed my phone, about to dial emergency services, but then I saw a WhatsApp message from my wife.

She wrote: "I'll be home in an hour. Has the baby been good today?"

*****

I felt like I couldn't breathe, my heart crushed by grief and sorrow.

With trembling hands, I pulled away the layers of bedding and gently cradled my son in my arms.

The damp cold clung to my fingers, sinking deep into my heart.

I couldn't bear to imagine it. Over those last few minutes, my son had been soaking in winter's icy water, his life slipping away bit by bit.

I gently cradled my son, letting my finger brush against his tiny hand.

Back then, his eyes would light up with curiosity, his little fingers wrapping around mine without thinking, and he'd flash that gummy smile.

But now, his eyes would never open again, and that smile was gone forever.

Suddenly, my phone started ringing, the shrill sound cutting through my daze.

It was my wife calling.

I took a deep breath, my hands shaking so badly that I fumbled several times before finally answering.

"Hey, why haven't you replied to my messages? I'm just finishing up at the store. I'll be home soon," she said.

"How's the baby? Put him on so I can hear if he's being good."

With a hoarse voice, I said quietly, "He just fell asleep. Let's not wake him."

My wife's voice softened immediately.

"Oh, okay, I'll let you go then. Your parents are coming over for dinner tonight, so I'll pick up a bottle of wine on my way home. See you soon."

After ending the call, I stared once more at my son's lifeless body.

My wife must not know about this.

We'd been married for years without a child, and our families were getting anxious for us.

As the years went by, my wife became more and more anxious.

She dreamed of being a mom, but worried that having a baby later in life might affect the baby's development.

Last year, after so much difficulty, she finally got pregnant, and when our son was born safe and sound, she finally smiled again.

My wife adored our son. He was her whole world. There's no way she could ever handle the news that he's gone.

And honestly, I can't even picture how I'm supposed to face her after losing him like this.

Numbly, I got up, cradling my son back to the bedroom. I changed him into clean clothes and a fresh diaper, one by one.

For the first time ever, he was so quiet, no crying, no fussing, letting me finish without a single protest.

I tucked him in snugly with a soft blanket, gently placing him in the center of the crib.

I arranged the rest of the sheets and clothes around him, hiding most of his body.

Only his little face was barely visible, as if he were peacefully asleep.

"See, you're not cold anymore... Baby, you're warm now..." I whispered softly.

I tore open a big pack of paper towels, pulling out handfuls and covering every last water stain, making sure every bit of dampness was gone.

I even got down on my hands and knees, inspecting every crack in the floor for any sign of moisture, but found none.

Finally, I carefully sprayed and wiped the crib rails and bedroom floor with alcohol and a damp towel, bit by bit.

After finishing up in the bedroom, I numbly made my way back to the balcony and unplugged the washing machine.

With a dry towel, I meticulously dried off the drum, the glass door, and every crease and fold in the rubber seal.

Then I opened up the drain pump filter and rinsed out any stray hairs left behind.

"I was just doing laundry, nothing was wrong," I kept telling myself.

I repeated it again and again, just trying to make myself believe it.

It was only then, with my nerves still rattled, that I noticed my pant legs were wet.

I went into the bedroom, swapped my wet pants for another pair in the same color, and headed back to the living room, never once daring to even look in the direction of the crib.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I looked at my puffy, red eyes and took a deep breath.

I rubbed my eyes and cheeks, trying to loosen up and calm myself down.

I tried to pull the corners of my mouth into a smile, but it looked even more pathetic than crying.

Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.

I doubled over the sink, retching for what felt like ages.

There was no fooling myself anymore.

My two-month-old son is gone, and it's all my fault.

Before I could catch my breath, someone started pounding on the front door.

I jumped, stumbled toward the door, and then froze, feeling like I couldn't breathe.