Coffee and Catastrophes

This is the story of how one woman—unshowered, underslept, and emotionally unstable—nearly committed a felony over a cup of coffee.

It all began like most mornings in postpartum life: with a loud scream. Not hers, though hers was absolutely on the way. No, this was her baby daughter—who, from the moment she entered the world, had been less “perfect little angel” and more “siren of the underworld.”

The delivering doctor had blinked, half-startled, as her newborn daughter let out a cry that rattled the window panes and said flatly: “Well. She’s a banshee alright!”

Not “congratulations,” not “she’s beautiful,” just—banshee. Like he was naming a hurricane. And the thing was… he wasn’t wrong. His words had written her future.

Now, twelve months later, Lauren had learned through experience that her daughter’s cries could curdle milk, paralyze birds, and possibly, although untested, bend time. And this morning’s scream had shattered whatever scraps of sanity she was still pretending to possess. The pretending would only go so far into the coming day.

She rolled out of bed—limbs aching, soul humming with exhaustion, craving nicotine—and glanced at her husband, who was snoring like a log with a superiority complex. Of course he didn’t wake up. He never did. The baby could re-enact The Exorcist in the nursery, and he’d sleep through it like a cursed king. Or a cursed plumber as his buttcrack graced the bedroom air every morning.

Lauren trudged down the hallway with the baby connected to her left hip, praying caffeine would soon make everything feel less like a hostage situation. She reached the kitchen and began the sacred Keurig ritual she followed each morning: Pod. Button. Hope. Denial. Repeat.

Enter: The Mother-in-Law.

Dear Mother-in-Law descended upon the kitchen like a motivational speaker trapped in the wrong career. Hair perfect. Voice bright and ready for battle. Eyes locked onto Lauren with the intensity of a woman about to tell you how you’re doing it wrong.

“Oh, she’s crying again,” mother-in-law announced like it was a news bulletin and not just, you know, every morning. Then, without asking as always, she lunged toward the baby with all the grace of a well-meaning vulture.

“I got her,” Lauren said, sharply, clutching her child like a woman protecting the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

“Oh, sweet girl,” her mother-in-law cooed—to the baby, not to Lauren—“She just needs a little snuggle from Grandma.” Lauren stared blankly. Her eyelid twitched, threatening to expose her inner rage at any given opportunity.

She moved toward the Keurig like a wounded soldier, willing the brew to finish faster with imaginary psychic powers. It hadn’t even begun dripping when she felt the presence return. The woman had followed her. To the coffee machine. Her precious Keurig. To stand there. And talk.

“Are you okay, honey? You seem off today.”

She placed a hand gently on Lauren’s arm; the weight burning through the meat down to her bones. Like a trap. Like a curse. Lauren blinked. She stared into the middle distance through her back window like a war widow. Her internal monologue had entered a zone previously reserved for ancient gods and useless WiFi.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her mantra these days.

The universal truth for: I am one more question away from bursting into tears or launching myself into the cow pasture behind this very house.

The coffee, thank heavens, finally finished. Lauren grabbed it like a lifeline, took a long, burning sip, and tried to disassociate into the mug. But her mother-in-law wasn’t done. It was like her mother-in-law could feel her energy levels for ruination.

“You know,” mother-in-law began, “I really think she cries like this because you’re too quick to pick her up. In my day, if you’d just—”

Lauren didn’t hear the rest. Her brain blocked the sounds to protect her future self. She was busy calculating how many years she’d serve for second-degree murder, and whether prison had decent coffee.

Enter: The Husband.

Fresh from the bedroom. Clueless. Yawning.

“What’s going on?” he asked, blinking.

Lauren stared at him, apathetic. He looked rested, well even. He looked untouched by the banshee cries, the unsolicited parenting critiques, the relentless proximity of everything and everyone. And then he had the audacity to lean on the doorframe like he was part of the scenery.

“What’s wrong with you today?” he added, a hint of a scoff tipping his tongue.

Lauren didn’t answer; she couldn’t. Her brain went silent, like a radio switching stations. The voice inside her said:

You know what? No. Say nothing. Just vanish. Walk into the forest and let the moss claim you. Change your name. Start fresh.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee, turned to her mother-in-law, and said clearly: “Please stop grabbing my baby.”

Silence. A pause. The kind of pause that sucks all the oxygen out of a room.

“Well I was just trying to help,” her mother-in-law replied, injured but still somehow feeling righteous.

“I know,” Lauren said matter of factly. “It’s not helping.”

The baby chose that perfect, exact moment to scream again, like she was scoring the scene.

“See?” her mother-in-law started.

“She was diagnosed,” Lauren interrupted. “With Banshee Syndrome. Terminal case.”

Her husband snorted. He tried to hide it, but Lauren saw. For once, he got it. The rest of the day was a blur—nap fights, unsolicited advice, more hovering.

At one point Lauren stared blankly at a wall for six whole minutes before being asked, “Are you okay?” for the fifth time.

She wasn’t. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she survived. Eventually the baby slept. The house went quiet. The mother-in-law retreated to do whatever mother-in-laws do when they run out of “help.” Her husband disappeared with his phone and his delusions.

And Lauren? She stepped outside onto the porch. She cradled her now-lukewarm coffee. She listened to the silence. She didn’t smile.

But she didn’t scream either.

And that? That was victory.

The End.

(or… at least, the pause before tomorrow begins again)