Out Of Love
By: Neïka Jourdain
Background: when I was 19 years old, I started writing a book titled “out of love”. It’s a fictional psychological thriller centered around the depths of post partum depression.
It explores the story of a successful lawyer with a troubling past who’s had to navigate life as a first time mom of twins. As the pressure of motherhood engulfed her, she made a life decision that would forever change the trajectory of her world and that of others. I never finished the book, as it became too much for me to handle emotionally. Now that I am much older, I’ve decided to share the story on this platform. I hope you enjoy reading it, and that it brings awareness on the subject as many women around the world face this reality. (Not as graphically or intensely) but still. Here is chapter 1.
Chapter 1
Four little monkeys jumping on the bed
One fell off and bumped his head
Mama called the doctor
And the doctor said,
No more monkeys jumping on the bed
Three little monkeys…..
One fell off, bumped his head
Mama called the doctor
And the doctor said,
No more monkeys jumping on the bed
Bed, bed, monkeys, jumping
bed……….
“Mrs. Hill,” echoes a deep voice.
“Can you hear me? Hello — ”
I snapped out of my little world. What was I thinking?
“Yes,” I hear you, I sighed.
“Dr. Joe, I did it. I did it,” I said, trembling.
“I killed my babies. I carried them to term and I killed them.”
It was hard to feel bad for the two little monsters who practically made me their slave.
I’m no expert, and I truly did love my children, but the snot show they put on every day and the constant crying drove me insane. I used to look into my children’s beautiful eyes like a caterpillar taking its first trip across a herd of green pastures. They looked at me as if I was their savior, their first love. It was as if I was the sun over the horizon for them, their morning star on a snowy Christmas night.
“And why did you do it?”
Said the tall, dark, bald man who sat across from me. He was a therapist sent to talk to me, while my hopes and dreams withered away like a young woman in her twenties wasting her youth on Botox and suitors who forever desire her on girlfriend duties.
“They kept crying and crying. I fed them, bathed them. I was so tired. It’s so hard to take care of twins. They always wanted the nipple, never the bottle,” I explained, my words now slow and unfiltered.
“My husband had gone back to work that day. He helped…somewhat, yet it somehow wasn’t enough.”
“So why didn’t you seek help?” he asked.
“I did. I asked new mothers, and they would always respond with,
‘It’ll pass.’
Many of them seemed so fit, as if they had it all together. They knew what to expect after birth, how to look after the delicate needs of a child.
My mother-in-law used to look at me as less than a mother.
‘Drea,’ she would say.
‘She is an infant, not a stuffed animal.’
‘Drea, this is not how you make a purée.’
‘Drea, you’re the type of woman they send back to their parents’ house.’
My husband would often join the mockery while I sank deeper and deeper into the shallows. I couldn’t take it anymore. He was my husband, my other half, yet he would say things like, “what happened to being so accomplished and successful? How hard is it to handle two kids?” His eyes bulging out, awaiting the satisfactory laugh they would both get from tormenting me.
The darkest days were when I sat on our leather couch, their favorite nursery rhyme on repeat, a shirt deluged with vomit, as the strands of my hair interlocked within themselves.
I spoke to my husband about it, who by the way never changed a diaper.
The irony of it all is that my husband is also a doctor. He would simply say, “Plenty of mothers feel this way. It’ll pass.”
“What will pass?” interrupted Dr. Joe.
“The resentment. I resented my children. Leena would always bite, and Leo couldn’t go a minute without pulling my hair. I hated it, Dr. Joe. They wouldn’t shut up. I hadn’t slept in days. I just wanted peace and quiet.”
Dr. Joe finally looked up from his pad and delicately scratched his bald head. The air crisp from the silence, yet so loud from approaching footsteps.
“Time’s up!” yelled the guard who then handcuffed me and transported me back to my cell.
The women on C Block hated me, although they had committed far worse crimes than I.
The first day I got here was rough. Word travels fast on C Block and so when they found out I killed my babies, they wanted to crucify me in a cry for mercy.
Sia, my roommate, was in for malpractice. She was a doctor and understood my feelings in a way I craved my husband had. I loved her for it. She would often say,
“I wish I knew you four months ago. I would’ve definitely helped you. You don’t deserve this Drea. You deserved to be a great mother who received the help she needed. The people around you, your village, should have been present. They should’ve heard your cry for help. It’s not fair.”
As much as I wanted to believe her, my insides felt like they were turning inside out. I was finally mentally stable enough to mourn my children. I missed the days when they would smile at the sight of a butterfly. Leena gave the sweetest hugs and Leo had the craziest yet most wholesome laugh. I loved them, but I didn’t feel fit to be their mother. I wasn’t strong enough. I was so depressed. The thought of it all disgusts me, but I have peace.
My name is Drea Hill.
My husband; Bruno, and I got married four years ago. It was a beautiful fairytale wedding in Italy. We had family and friends there and the music was heavenly. Our wedding and marriage were perfect until two years ago when we had Leo and Leena.
I remember my first doctor’s appointment when I finally got to see them. I remember it like it was yesterday when the doctor said these words.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Hill, you’re having twins.”
My husband was ecstatic with joy. I couldn’t believe it. I was having twins. I always wanted twins.
It’s really crazy because after getting married, everyone tells you how amazing it will be to build a family, but no one ever mentions how hard it is to be a parent, how exhausting it would be to take care of two human beings.
They don’t tell you what to expect when you’re expecting or what to do when the babies stay up all night or how to take care of your mental health.
Everyone celebrates the wedding, baby announcement, gender reveal, baby showers, but not when you need to step away and take a break from motherhood.
My babies meant everything to me. They were my reason for being. Am I really the monster here?
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Should I really be penalized for being mentally harassed by my children?
My husband is an orthopedic doctor. I’m a lawyer, a damn good one at that. I’ve won every single case I’ve ever had. I’ve seen it all.
This is just to say, I knew I’d go to jail, but at the time of the murder, jail sounded like paradise. No kids, no crying babies, no demanding husband. Just me behind a cell and a roommate.
I knew.
I felt like I was juggling everything on my own. My husband, who vowed to stay with me through good and bad times, was eager to go back to work. Our routine went from honeymoon phase to just sleeping next to each other.
He would often receive business calls from his “colleague,” Lucy, but I knew he was just sowing his paths with her.
He would always expect to find a hot meal on the table and a clean house. He called it “wifely duties.”
He saw me as a maid, and I resented him for it.
We couldn’t even bring ourselves to have table talk. His day was always the same. His routine never changed. Early morning: wake up, shower, go to work, come home, kiss me, kiss the babies, sleep, repeat.
He even stopped helping care for them at night. He once proposed that I retire so I could better nurture the babies.
I hated my husband, and I couldn’t stand my babies. They looked just like him.
Then came the dreadful day where I simply lost control.
One afternoon was all it took….
An afternoon where the sky painted itself blue as it had always done since the beginning of time.
I found myself staring at our sweet angels, they were asleep, and looked so peaceful. It led me to wonder, would it really be so bad if they could stay like this forever? if I could just return them to their maker. They would forgive me right?
They would in fact be grateful as I simply could not bring myself to give them the motherly love they deserved, they honestly felt like a second job.
I pondered the idea for what felt like eternity.
Then one hot morning, after my husband left for work, I picked up a knife. I fed them, dressed them in their best outfits, and carefully combed their hair. One by one, I kissed them — slowly, deliberately, as if trying to memorize the moment. And explained to them why mommy couldn’t keep or care for them anymore.
“Leena, Leo, my beautiful babies. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so much. You need to understand why I need to do this, Mommy needs her sanity back. So you see, it’s important that I return you back to God”.
They smiled and cooed. I took it as confirmation and smiled back. I hugged them both with every fiber of my body.
I wanted it to be quick. Something merciful, something that wouldn’t let them suffer. But when I stabbed them in the belly, the cut wasn’t deep enough.
They started crying. Screaming.
The sound rang through me, sharp and relentless, until it twisted into something unbearable. It made my head throb. It made my chest tighten. It made me angry.
I begged them — I really did. I asked them to stay quiet, to just stop, but Leena was just like her father, stubborn as a mule.
The more she cried,
the more she looked like him,
and the more that sound filled the room,
the more something inside me snapped.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
But they only screamed louder.
All I wanted was silence — just a moment of peace.
Instead, my mind locked onto the noise, turning it into something inescapable, a purgatory of my own making. The sound pressed in on me from every side until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, until the only thing that made sense was to make it stop.
So I kept going.
Over and over and over again.
Until the screaming stopped.
Until there was nothing left but stillness. Small, breathless bodies sinking into a dark, spreading pool, and the echo of something inside me finally going quiet.
When I pulled the knife away, it dripped steadily, each drop thick and deliberate. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt… relief.
Like I could finally hear myself again.
Like the Drea I once knew was clawing her way back.
I started counting as I moved, the rhythm grounding me.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…
Eleven…
At some point, the numbers blurred together. I lost track. It didn’t matter anymore.
They weren’t moving.
They weren’t crying.
Just silence.
I sat there for a moment, taking it in, letting the quiet wrap around me. Then I got up, popped open a bottle of wine, and let myself sink into the stillness I had been craving.
When I finally drifted off to sleep and woke again, the house was unchanged, no cries, no demands, no interruptions.
Just peace.
And for the first time, it felt… complete.
I danced around, cooked one last meal for my husband and booked a trip to Aruba.
I carefully tied the babies in trash bags and buried them in the backyard. Their home going ceremony was beautiful, I said goodbye to them, and flew first class.
That is my story ladies and gentlemen.
I implore you to stop reading this story; my story. Many people think I’m a nut job for sacrificing my children for a moment of peace. I could never dream of leaving my children, but they had become white elephants to me. I’ve watched way too many movies to know that one day Leo and Leena would have questions that they’d desperately want answers to, answers that I wouldn’t have.
How do you explain to a child that their mother left them in a world where life itself is hard enough without the trauma inflicted by their circumstances?
Leaving my children felt like a life sentence. The idea of them knowing that I didn’t want them almost destroyed me, but it doesn’t matter how I justify it. I am the victim in this story. As far as I know, my children are in heaven playing with dogs and eating Jell-O. I know that they are happy. This brings me peace.
As I was left to reflect on my actions, for what the judge said was 25 years to life, I felt my strength returning.
So we pose the question: do I feel guilty?
No, no I do not.
Would I have been a great mother? Absolutely not.
So in the murder of my children, I blame my so-called village, I blame Bruno, I blame Lucy. I blame my doctors.
I am innocent.
