I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard of my car and realized I'd been in the mall parking lot for an hour and a half. I had just been sitting there - car in park, radio and ignition off - just sitting and staring. It was hot inside my navy blue sedan - the weather was unusually warm for October - and I did not smell good. Without the cool breeze of the air conditioner, beads of sweat rolled down my cheeks and the back of my neck. I watched the clock for another ten minutes before I finally peeled off the leather saddle upholstery. It was time to get functional.

My destination was Borders. I needed to know I was not alone in my despair and shame. Surely, I could find some books to help me understand why I was so miserable at what was supposed to be the happiest time of my life. Someone else must have experienced what was happening to me. Barely three months before, I had given birth to a perfect, beautiful baby girl and I wanted nothing to do with her. Something was wrong with me and I needed to know I wasn't the monster I saw in the mirror; that the Sylvia I knew was somewhere underneath.

Our newborn daughter, Melina, had been living at my parents' house for nearly two months and I still felt petrified. My husband, Michael, was ready to start being a father and was growing impatient. When could our baby come home