In the days that followed, all they did, or should Gilbert say, he did, was rotate between working in the study, feeding, clothing, and playing with Ariel. And all Shantel did was to sit and stare up in space.
Sometimes, Gilbert walked in on her sobbing. His heart broke anytime he saw her like that.
"Avery, what's wrong?" He'd ask sometimes. But as always, he was met with silence. It almost felt as if she was rebelling against them. Against him.
The living room was quiet except for the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of a blanket being adjusted. It had been almost a month since Ariel's birth, and the silence had become a third presence in the house—hovering between Shantel and Gilbert like an unspoken agreement.
Gilbert sat on the edge of the couch, rocking Ariel gently in his arms. The baby had just fallen asleep, her tiny breaths syncing with the rise and fall of his chest. Her little hands, curled like seashells, peeked from the blanket.
Across the room, Shantel sat in an armchair, legs tucked beneath her, staring at the TV. It was on, but muted. The show—some cooking competition—flashed images of fire and movement and energy, none of which touched her expression.
"Do you want to hold her?" Gilbert asked, his voice soft, hopeful.
Shantel didn't look away from the screen. "Maybe later."
"Later..." Gilbert wanted to say something, but in the end, he nodded.
He no longer believed in her 'later', because it meant anything at all anymore.
If anything, it was like a repetitive play of a broken record. Detached.
He knew he had to do something about this. But as to what to do, even he had no idea. It was almost as if he were in an endless tunnel, trying to walk his way out, but he realized that the more he thought he was almost there, the more disappointed he was when he saw there was no end to this sudden misery.
That night, Gilbert stood over the crib, watching Ariel sleep.
He whispered, "She looks like you," though Shantel wasn't in the room to hear it.
And maybe that was the problem.
Shantel wasn't really in any room anymore.
She moved through the house like a visitor—quiet, distant, polite. She ate only when reminded. Slept more during the day than at night. Sometimes he found her standing in the nursery doorway, unmoving. Just staring.
Once, he walked in and saw her holding a pair of baby socks like they were made of glass. Her fingers trembled slightly. She didn't speak.
He didn't ask.
He was afraid of the answer. He felt the answer would break him, would break them.
The next morning, Gilbert still went about the normal routine, just that there was something different.
He fed and played with Ariel until the little bundle had drifted off before walking back downstairs.
Shantel was sitting at the dining table, slowly slicing a piece of toast she had no intention of eating.
"I made us an appointment," he said, and sat down opposite her at the table.
Shantel didn't respond immediately.
"For what?" she asked.
"Therapy. There's a woman I found—Dr. Rema. She specializes in postpartum care. And I think she could help us.
It's nothing serious, just a consultation. First session is tomorrow."
Shantel's hand paused over her plate.
"Is this because I'm not… bonding?"
"It's because you're not okay," he said gently. "And that's not a failure. It's something we can work through."
She looked up at him, and for a moment, he thought she might argue.
But instead, she said, "Okay."
Their first session was in a sunlit office filled with plants and soft colors. Dr. Rema was a woman in her early forties. She welcomed them with a soft voice, warm eyes and no pressure.
Shantel sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed. Gilbert sat beside her, closer than he'd been in weeks.
Dr. Rema began, "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow. And baby..."
"Ariel. Her name is Ariel." Gilbert replied. They had brought Ariel with them Gilbert refused to hire a nanny. With all that was going on, he felt that if he brought in a nanny now, they were going to grow more distant.
Shantel's sister Alma who could have helped them with Ariel today, was out of town with her family.
"We're not here to fix anyone. We're here to talk. To explore. To understand." Dr. Rema continued after swooning over Ariel. You could tell she wanted to release tension.
Neither of them spoke.
So, she asked questions.
"Shantel, how have you been feeling since the birth?"
"I'm tired."
Gilbert waited for more. There was none.
Dr. Rema nodded. "Tired can mean many things. Physically? Emotionally?"
Shantel shrugged. "Both."
The doctor turned to Gilbert. "What do you notice about her that's different?"
Gilbert hesitated. "She doesn't talk to Ariel. She doesn't… touch her. She barely touches me."
Shantel looked away.
"I'm not mad," he added quickly. "I'm scared."
Still, no reply.
"Do you ever feel detached from your daughter?" the doctor asked Shantel.
Shantel's voice was flat. "I feel… numb."
"Do you think about harming her?"
Shantel blinked. "No. Never. But there's this... anger, and pain."
Gilbert released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"I just don't feel connected," she added. "Like she's mine."
Dr. Rema leaned in gently. "That's more common than you think."
Dr. Rema kept the conversation going, yet Shantel didn't say much. It was as if she just came to because I said so.
After the session, Dr. Rema asked me to stay behind, so I asked Shantel to push the carrier out to the car.
She hesitated initially, then slowly pushed Ariel out of the doctor's office.
"What do you think is wrong, Doc?" Gilbert asked as soon as Shantel was out of earshot.
Well, I suspect it to be postpartum depression. that could not be the only problem. I think there's more. Which we'll try to unravel during the next few sessions."
"I don't know, but I feel like there's more to it than postpartum. Sometimes, I see anger in her eyes when she looks at our little girl.
"But more than that, I see guilt when she looks at me. Then, resentment. Like I've wronged her."
"I love her so much that I wish I could take whatever pain she's going through in place of her."
After coming out of Dr. Rema's office, Gilbert found Shantel sitting in the outpatient area, with the baby troller beside her.
She looked a little pale. As if looking after Ariel for those few minutes was some kind of airborne poison.
"Hey." He walked up to her and said, "Why didn't you wait for me in the car downstairs?"
As usual, she didn't reply and just walked away. Gilbert looked at her slumped back as he pushed the stroller from behind.
He really hoped these sessions would help, else he dreaded how messier things would get if it doesn't.
They kept going to sessions. It started as once a week, then twice.
These sessions were supposed to be specifically for Shantel, but Gilbert found himself opening up more than he expected to—about the pressure, the helplessness, the guilt he couldn't name.
He didn't know he needed these sessions as much as Shantel. Shantel on the other hand stayed mostly quiet.
Some days she didn't speak at all.
Other days, she gave short, calculated answers, like she was being tested and didn't want to fail.
Outside therapy, she grew even more distant.
She stopped going to the foundation.
At first, she claimed it was just a short break. Then, it was "too much to deal with." Eventually, she just stopped mentioning it.
Lauren called regularly to check up on her.
"Is she still not saying anything?" She asked.
"Nothing yet," Gilbert responded.
"I know it's hard, but you should give her time. I'm sure she'll come around." Lauren knew Shantel as the strongest person she had ever known. So, she believed this was a phase that would soon pass.
April would also call a couple of times. She would try not to talk about personal things and would rather talk about the foundation.
Sometimes, she'd chat along with her. But whenever she tried to bring up Gilbert or Ariel, Shantel would react strongly to it.
"This is not good… You know you can talk to me."
Shantel signed and said, "I can't find the words to explain this. But when I see them, I die a little inside."
"Is it Gilbert or Ariel?"
"I don't know which is more… but both of them open me up to agony."
"Oh my God… Shay!" April signed in distress.
"They are your family. Your husband and your daughter…"
"Please, April, please stop. Can we not talk about it?"
"We will… We have to. Because… This whole thing is eating you up.
And everyone who depends on you is becoming miserable along with you.
Where did the woman who would stand on the pulpit to give courage to all those women and young ladies who came to us for help go?"
"Shay, listen… Nobody will help you, or even understand you, if you don't speak. You said this yourself. I know that you need all the space you can get."
"I don't know what to do, April. It's like I'm in a bottomless pit." She was really talking from a place of pain.
She just hoped for redemption, which she never knew would come. But she just hoped it came before this silence ruined her.
One afternoon, she just got up and decided to delete the Wellspring app from her phone.
Gilbert noticed it but said nothing.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Gilbert watched Shantel from the kitchen. She was sitting in the garden, still as a statue, knees pulled to her chest.
He stepped outside.
"Want company?"
She didn't answer, but she didn't ask him to leave either.
He sat beside her. The air smelled like dust and heat.
"We used to come out here all the time," he said.
She nodded.
"You'd talk about opening centers in other cities. Training volunteers. Changing laws."
She didn't reply.
He looked at her. "Where did she go?"
She finally spoke. "She's still here. Just… hiding."
"From what?"
Shantel's eyes welled. "From myself."
Later that night, after Ariel's last feeding—Gilbert's third of the day—he walked into their bedroom and found Shantel curled up under the blanket, facing the wall.
He sat down gently. "I know I keep trying to fix things."
"You do."
"But I don't know how."
"I know."
"I just… I miss you."
A long silence followed. He thought she'd fallen asleep.
Then she whispered, "I miss myself too."