After giving birth, my husband made it clear my body had become a problem he expected me to fix. I lost the weight—but by then, I’d learned something about him he never saw coming.
Four months after my daughter was born, my life revolved around feedings instead of hours.
I woke two or three times a night, sometimes more, and by morning I could barely remember whether I’d brushed my teeth.
Coffee went cold on the counter. Breakfast was whatever I could manage with one hand while holding the baby with the other. Some days, even taking a shower felt like an achievement.
Ryan slept through almost all of it.
If I nudged him awake, he would mumble, “You’re already up,” as if that settled everything. On weekends, he occasionally took the baby so I could rest, but the second she cried, 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.”
So I took her back.
