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.”
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