The first weeks after Ivy was born blur together in my memory — not because they weren’t meaningful, but because everything was happening through exhaustion. I remember fragments: her soft breaths against my chest, the creak of the cradle beside our bed, the dull ache that lived permanently in my abdomen after my unexpected C-section. I remember watching the world shrink to one small room, one tiny baby, and the sound of my own heartbeat trying to keep a steady rhythm despite the upheaval.
Becoming a mother wasn’t the shock. The shock was how everything else shifted around me.
Ivy is only two months old, and she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But recovery is slow. Some days I can’t stand straight without my scar pulling. I sleep in short bursts, I eat whatever I can grab, and I forget what the word “rested” even feels like. I knew motherhood would be hard — but I didn’t expect to feel like I was doing it alone.
Before Ivy arrived, Rowan was all-in. He’d press his cheek to my stomach and whisper to her through the skin.
“She’ll have your smile,” he once murmured, kissing the stretch marks by my side. “And your fire.”
We’d laughed about it then. It felt like we were on the same team.
When we brought Ivy home, we agreed she’d sleep in the cradle next to our bed. He promised he’d be there if I needed him. And I believed him — until night after night proved otherwise.
When Ivy woke, my body reacted before my brain did. I’d lift her carefully, heart pounding, terrified I’d wake Rowan — not because he needed sleep, but because of how irritated he’d become. Every night he seemed more inconvenienced, more impatient, more distant from the man who used to talk to our daughter before she was even born.
“Here we go again,” he’d mutter into the pillow.
“Feed her quick.”
“Try to keep her quiet, Amara.”
Sometimes he didn’t even turn over. He got up twice in the first two weeks — once to hold her awkwardly until she cried louder, the second time to hand her back almost immediately.
“She wants you,” he said, already retreating into sleep. “She always wants you.”
So it became my responsibility alone. The late-night feeds. The diaper changes under the dim glow of my phone. The hours spent patting her back until her tiny body relaxed again. I tried not to resent him. I told myself he was adjusting. I told myself he’d come around.
But then one night, everything snapped.
It was 2:30 a.m. Ivy’s cry broke through the silence. I moved fast, trying not to disturb Rowan. I had her in my arms, feeding her, when he suddenly sat up and glared at me like I was doing something wrong.
“Enough, Amara!” he snapped. “I can’t sleep like this! Every night I’m listening to her cry and you making noise. Do you know how annoying it is?”
I froze. Ivy whimpered softly, and I held her closer.
“She’s hungry,” I whispered. “She’s a newborn.”
“Then feed her somewhere else,” he shot back. “The kitchen. The bathroom. I don’t care. I need sleep. Or does that not matter to you?”
I stared at him, stunned. “She needs to stay close to us. Moving her makes it harder for her to settle.”
“Oh, spare me,” he muttered, throwing himself back onto the pillow. “You always have an excuse. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
And that was it. He fell asleep like he hadn’t just ripped through my heart.
The next morning, he kissed my forehead like nothing happened. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a man walking out the door while I stood there holding our baby, hands shaking.
Hours later, when the house was quiet and Ivy slept on my chest, someone knocked. It was Livia, my mother-in-law, holding groceries and laundry detergent.
“I thought you could use help,” she said, stepping inside.
Something in me cracked. She hugged me gently, then rolled up her sleeves, started a stew, put laundry on, and held Ivy so I could eat an actual meal. Before she left, I told her Rowan was overwhelmed. I didn’t mention the awful things he said — I didn’t have the strength.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” she said. “Victor will talk to him.”
And she meant it.
A few days later, my sister-in-law Kiera arrived with diapers and chocolate, plopped onto my couch, and stayed until I laughed for the first time in weeks. She didn’t sugarcoat anything.
“Men are clueless sometimes,” she said. “You’re not invisible, Amara.”
Then came dinner at Victor and Livia’s house, where the warmth almost felt like a balm. Kids yelling, pasta steaming, laughter bouncing off the walls. I felt like a person again.
But then, from the dining room, Rowan’s voice cut through the comfort.
“She insists on feeding the baby right there in the bedroom,” he said loudly. “Every night. I’m exhausted. She doesn’t even care that I need sleep for work.”
I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, knife still in my hand.
Victor looked at him slowly, wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair.
“Stand up,” he said.
Rowan blinked. “Dad—”
“Stand. Up.”
He did.
“I didn’t raise you to be this selfish,” Victor said, voice sharp and steady. “Your wife is recovering from surgery. She’s up every night keeping your child alive while you complain about being disturbed. Do you hear how pathetic that sounds?”
Rowan swallowed hard.
“When your mother fed you at night,” Victor continued, “I sat beside her. I made tea. I kept her company. I was her partner. Not a burden. Not a child needing 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’ll answer to me.”
Rowan’s face drained of color.
The drive home afterward was silent.
That night, at 3 a.m., when Ivy cried, I stayed still.
And Rowan got up.
He fumbled with the bottle warmer, whispered to her softly, rocked her awkwardly, but he did it — all of it — without a single complaint.
A few nights later, I woke to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, quietly crying.
“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, and we sat there in the soft dark, both of us hurting, both of us trying.
Things aren’t perfect now. But they’re better. Livia still drops off meals. Kiera still shows up with chocolate and chaos. Rowan tries — really tries.
And me? I’m still tired. Still healing. But I’m not breaking anymore.
Because I remembered something important:
I’m Ivy’s mother.
And that strength doesn’t come from sleep or help or validation.
It comes from love — the kind that gets up every night, aches every day, and still keeps going.
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