Four months after my daughter was born, my life was measured in feedings rather than hours. Waking up three or four times a night was standard, and mornings usually began without knowing if I had brushed my teeth or taken a shower. Breakfast was whatever I could grab with one hand while holding the baby.
My husband, Ryan, slept through almost all of it. If I gently nudged him, he would mumble, “You’re already up,” as if that settled the matter. On weekends, he occasionally held her, but the second she cried, he brought her back to me. “She wants you—you know how to calm her down.” So I took her again, continuing the cycle alone.
The Turning Point
One evening, we were getting ready for Ryan’s company dinner. I had spent twenty minutes trying to pull together a presentable look before pulling an old black dress from my closet—one that used to fit effortlessly.
That night, the zipper stopped halfway up my back.
Ryan stood behind me, adjusting his cuff links in the mirror. Without missing a beat, he said, “You know I love you, but attraction matters. You became a mother, not an old woman. If you keep letting yourself go, eventually I’ll have no choice but to leave. You should respect your husband enough to stay beautiful for him.”
I stood frozen. “I had a baby four months ago. I barely have time to sleep, let alone eat.”
