Four months after my daughter was born, I stopped measuring time in hours. Time was measured in feedings, diaper changes, and brief windows of restless sleep.
I woke two or three times a night—sometimes more—and by morning, I rarely remembered whether I’d brushed my teeth. Coffee went cold on the kitchen counter. Breakfast was whatever I could eat with one hand while bouncing a crying baby with the other.
Ryan slept through almost all of it. If I nudged him awake, he would mumble, “You’re already up,” as though that settled the matter. On weekends, he occasionally took the baby so I could rest, but the moment she fussed, he appeared in the doorway.
“She wants you.”
“You’re already up.”
“She’s been with me all day.”
“Yeah, but you know how to calm her down.”
One evening, we were getting ready for Ryan’s company dinner. I had spent twenty minutes trying to make myself look human before pulling a classic black dress from my closet. It was a dress that had always fitted perfectly.
That night, the zipper stopped halfway up my back. I sucked in my stomach and tried again. Nothing.
Ryan stood behind me adjusting his cuff links. I caught his eye in the mirror.
“Attraction matters,” he said casually.
I slowly turned around. “What?”
