13/04/2025
DON'T TAKE A BATH!... don't leave your little children alone; take them with you to the bathroom, but don't leave them alone.
A Mother's Painful Memory:
It happened just a month ago, but the pain still feels as fresh as if it were yesterday. That day, my husband had left early for work. I was home alone with our three-year-old daughter. She was playing happily in the living room, surrounded by her favorite dolls and toys.
A Moment of Distraction:
I had been holding off on taking a shower all morning, waiting for the right moment. Eventually, I thought, She’s fine… it’ll only take a few minutes. I told her gently, “Mama’s going to take a quick shower, sweetheart. Stay here and play, okay?” She nodded without much attention, focused on dressing up her doll. I left the bathroom door open and turned on the water.
The Tragic Accident:
As the steam rose around me, I called out, “Are you there, baby girl?” She answered cheerfully, “Here, toy Mama!” I smiled. Her little voice always warmed my heart. A few minutes passed, and I called again, just to be sure. “Are you still there, baby girl?” Again, she chirped, “Here, toy Mama!” I let the water run a bit longer, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Maybe five more minutes passed. Then I called again. “Are you there, baby girl?” There was no reply.
The Unbearable Loss:
At first, I thought she was just lost in her play. But something tugged at me—a mother’s instinct. I quickly turned off the water, wrapped myself in a towel, and rushed out of the bathroom. What I saw will haunt me forever. She was lying on the floor, eyes wide open, completely still. I called her name again and again, picked her up, shaking, screaming, begging her to wake up. But she wasn’t breathing.
The Aftermath:
In a panic, I called 911. The paramedics arrived quickly, but there was nothing they could do. My world collapsed when they told me she was gone. The next day, during the autopsy, they found the cause—she had accidentally swallowed a small slipper from one of her dolls. It had blocked her airway.
The Painful Reminder:
My husband and I were shattered. Grief does strange things to love. The silence between us grew heavy, and eventually, we drifted apart under the weight of blame, guilt, and sorrow. Now I live alone. My therapist suggested I write this down—to release the pain, to find some kind of healing. But healing feels like a myth.
The Haunting Memory:
Every time I walk toward the bathroom, I freeze. The thought of water, of being behind that door again, terrifies me. Still, sometimes I gather the courage, and when the water runs warm down my back, a part of me dares to ask: “Are you there, baby girl?” And in the hush of steam and silence, I swear I can still hear her whisper: “Here, toy Mama.