The first weeks after Ivy was born feel like a watercolor smear in my mind — not because they lacked meaning, but because everything happened behind a fog of exhaustion. I remember flashes: the soft rise and fall of her breath against my chest, the creaking cradle by our bed, the sharp tug of pain every time my C-section scar reminded me it wasn’t done healing. My world shrank to one bedroom, one tiny baby, and the sound of my heart trying to keep a steady pace despite the chaos.
Motherhood wasn’t the shock. What surprised me was how much everything around me changed.
Ivy is only two months old, and she is the greatest joy in my life. But recovery is slow and unforgiving. Some days I can’t straighten my back without wincing. I sleep in scattered minutes, eat whatever I can hold with one hand, and barely remember what being “rested” feels like. I expected hard days — I didn’t expect to feel abandoned in them.
Before Ivy arrived, Rowan was fully invested. He’d rest his cheek against my stomach and speak to her like she could already hear him.
“She’ll have your smile,” he whispered once, kissing the stretch marks on my side. “And your spark.”
Back then, it felt like we were a team.
When we came home with Ivy, we agreed she’d sleep in the cradle beside us. Rowan promised he’d wake if I needed help. I believed him. But night after night proved I was the only one keeping that promise.
Every time Ivy cried, my body jolted awake before my mind did. I’d scoop her up gently, terrified of waking Rowan — not for his sake, but for how annoyed he’d become. Each night, he grew more irritated, more detached from the man who used to talk to our unborn daughter through my skin.
“Again?” he’d grumble.
“Hurry up.”
“Keep her quiet, Amara.”
Some nights he didn’t even roll over. He got up twice in two weeks — once to hold her stiffly until she cried harder, the second time to hand her back almost immediately.
“She only wants you,” he mumbled, already drifting off.
And just like that, the nights became mine. All of them. Feeding her, changing her diaper by the glow of my phone, pacing the room while her tiny body shuddered from gas or hunger. I tried to stay patient. I kept telling myself he just needed time. I told myself he’d eventually step up.
But one night, the tension snapped.
It was 2:30 a.m. Ivy’s cry cut through the darkness, and I moved quickly, trying not to disturb Rowan. I was feeding her when he suddenly sat up, eyes sharp and angry.
“Enough, Amara!” he barked. “I can’t sleep! Every night it’s crying and noise. Do you know how annoying this is?”
I froze. Ivy whimpered, burrowing closer.
“She’s hungry,” I whispered. “She’s a newborn.”
“Then go feed her somewhere else,” he said. “The kitchen. The bathroom. Anywhere but here. I need sleep. Or doesn’t that matter to you?”
I stared at him like I didn’t know him anymore. “She needs to stay close to us. Moving her wakes her more.”
“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “You always have excuses. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
And then he rolled over and went back to sleep — like he hadn’t just shattered me with one sentence.
The next morning, he kissed my forehead as if nothing had happened. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just walked out the door while I held Ivy, my hands still trembling.
Later that day, when Ivy finally slept, I heard a knock. It was Livia, my mother-in-law, with groceries and laundry detergent in her arms.
“I thought you might need a hand,” she said gently.
Something inside me cracked. She hugged me softly, then started cooking, put laundry in the washer, and held Ivy so I could eat something warm. Before she left, I told her Rowan was overwhelmed. I didn’t mention what he’d said — I didn’t have the strength to relive it.
“You’re doing beautifully,” she murmured. “Victor will talk to him.”
And she meant it.
A few days later, my sister-in-law Kiera showed up with diapers and chocolate, dropped onto my couch, and stayed until I laughed for the first time in weeks.
“Men are idiots sometimes,” she said bluntly. “But you’re not invisible, Amara.”
Then came dinner at Victor and Livia’s house — loud kids, steaming pasta, laughter filling every corner. For the first time since giving birth, I felt human again.
But from the dining room, Rowan’s voice cut through the warmth.
“She insists on feeding the baby right next to me every night,” he complained. “I’m exhausted. She doesn’t get that I need sleep for work.”
I froze in the kitchen doorway, knife suspended in midair.
Victor set his fork down, wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair.
“Stand up,” he said.
Rowan blinked. “Dad—”
“Stand. Up.”
He obeyed.
“I didn’t raise you to be this selfish,” Victor said, every word steady and sharp. “Your wife is recovering from surgery. She’s awake every night keeping your child alive while you whine about noise. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
Rowan’s face faltered.
“When your mother fed you at night,” Victor continued, “I sat beside her. I made tea. I helped. That’s what a partner does. Not a boy who expects special treatment.”
He picked up Ivy’s diaper bag and pressed it into Rowan’s hands.
“From now on, you get up. You help. You show up. And if you don’t, you answer to me.”
The room went silent. Rowan swallowed hard.
The drive home was quiet.
That night, when Ivy cried at 3 a.m., I stayed still.
And Rowan got up.
He fumbled with the bottle, whispered clumsy comforts, rocked her awkwardly — but he did it. All of it. Without complaining.
A few nights later, I woke to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was awful. I didn’t understand. I don’t know how you’ve been doing this alone.”
I reached for his hand. The darkness around us felt softer now, as if it were allowing us space to heal.
Things aren’t perfect. But they’re better. Livia still brings food. Kiera still barges in with chocolate and loud opinions. And Rowan — he’s trying. Genuinely trying.
As for me, I’m still exhausted. Still healing. But I’m no longer breaking.
Because I remembered something important:
I’m Ivy’s mother.
And the strength that keeps me going doesn’t come from sleep or help or praise.
It comes from love — the kind that wakes up every night, aches every day, and keeps going anyway.