The first weeks after Ivy was born were a blur of exhaustion and recovery. Between sleepless nights, healing from a C-section, and constant feedings, I felt alone in the work of keeping our newborn alive. Rowan, my husband, had once promised to be present, but nights were spent watching him retreat in frustration while I managed everything.
One particularly hard night, he snapped at me for feeding Ivy in the bedroom, insisting I move elsewhere because her crying “disturbed” him. I was stunned, holding our baby while he fell back asleep without a word of apology.
Help finally arrived in the form of his father, Victor, and my sister-in-law, who offered support, meals, and reminders that I wasn’t invisible. But it was Victor confronting Rowan at dinner that shifted everything. He called out Rowan’s selfishness, handed him Ivy’s diaper bag, and made it clear he would no longer tolerate his absence in caring for our child. Rowan’s face went pale, and for the first time, he truly understood the weight of what I had been handling alone.
That night, when Ivy cried, Rowan got up. He learned to feed her, soothe her, and show care. Later, he apologized, and though things aren’t perfect, he’s trying. I’m still tired, still healing, but I’m no longer carrying it all alone. Because being Ivy’s mother has taught me that strength comes from love — the kind that keeps going even when you’re running on empty.