Jacob’s Step Ladder

They said the house was just settling. Creaking giving way to deep, subtle moans. I’d always heard that new houses did that, but I knew it wasn’t the same. There was an ominous tone to it all. It sounded as if the carpenters left a dismal orchestra between the studs and floorboards.

My wife had been nagging me to finish painting the nursery. My son would be arriving in one month, and the paint had been sitting in the room since we moved in. Procrastination is the best tool in these situations. I guess I figured the longer I put off painting the room, the later the baby would come. To be honest, despite what I told my wife and everyone else, I didn’t want a child. At least not then, probably never. I just didn’t think I, or my wife for that matter, was ready for that burden. Mentioning the “A” word was out of the question when we found out, so I kept my mouth shut and molded it into a smile.

“When are you going to get that room done, Harold?” She asked as I walked into the kitchen. She said it like she was my mother, I resented that.

“I don’t know, probably next week,” I said, detached. I couldn’t look at her, I just stared into my cup of coffee as I stirred sugar into it. That was our conversation every morning since we moved in.

Either that or hello.

Or goodbye.

Or the rare I love you.

The last morning we saw each other, she asked the same question. And I gave her the same answer. I saw her shake her head.

On my way to work, I thought about it. Whenever I got home and was in bed, I would get up when she fell asleep and paint. Surprise! For the first time since she got pregnant, I couldn’t wait to get home. She would be excited. Thrilled.



I walked through the door. “Hey honey!” I yelled. There was no answer. Only the dim creaks and breathy moans of the house. She wasn’t in the kitchen to ask me the question. She wasn’t in the bedroom taking a nap. I saw a wedge of light on the floor from the room at the end of the hall. The nursery. It seemed to take forever to walk down there. My steps began to fade each time I took one. My heart was pounding in my ears. I walked into the nursery.

There she was on the floor.

Face down, motionless.

Blood stretching across the carpet.

I looked at the wall; she must’ve been painting the last letter in our child’s name—Jacob—when she lost her balance on the ladder. Landing on her stomach. And there I was, wife in a coma with my dead child inside her.