The living room was silent except for the tellys low murmur and little Olivers hiccuping whimpers. There I was, swaying gently in the dim glow of the lamp, trying to calm him for what mustve been the hundredth time that evening. My jumper smelled faintly of baby sick and exhaustion. The weight of unshed tears pressed behind my eyes, but I swallowed them back.
On the sofa, James was glued to his phone, legs stretched out, a half-drunk can of cola and a packet of crisps strewn across the coffee table.
Three weeks. Thats how long it had been since we brought Oliver home. Three weeks of sleepless nights, endless feeds, and tearshis and mine. Id imagined wed tackle it together, that James would squeeze my hand and tell me I was doing brilliantly, that wed muddle through the madness side by side.
Instead, I might as well have been a ghost.
«Could you at least wash the bottles?» I asked, my voice barely steady.
James didnt even glance up. «Ive been at work all day, Sophie. I need to unwind.»
I nearly laughed. Unwind? What did that even mean anymore? I hadnt had more than two hours of kip in days. My body was still healing. My mind was fraying at the edges. But I said nothingjust turned away, rocking Oliver until his cries softened into sleepy little sighs.
Later that night, after finally getting him down, I sat on the edge of the bed and caught my reflection in the darkened window. The woman looking back was a strangerpale, drained, completely alone.
Then came the breaking point. A few nights later, Oliver wouldnt settle. His tiny fists balled up, face red with frustration. I paced the lounge, murmuring nursery rhymes I didnt even believe in anymore, every muscle screaming for rest.
I glanced at the sofaJames was out cold, the tellys glow flickering over his face. Something inside me just snapped.
I sank to the floor, cradling Oliver tight, and sobbed into his little blanket. I tried to keep quiet, but the sound ripped out of meraw and ragged. For a second, I wanted to shake James awake, to yell, «Look at us! Were sinking, and you dont even care!»
But I didnt.
I just held my baby closer and whispered, «Its alright, love. Mummys got you.»
The next morning, James found me asleep on the nursery rug, Oliver still curled in my arms. He frowned. «Why didnt you put him in his cot?»
«Because he wouldnt stop,» I mumbled. «Didnt want to disturb you.»
He sighed, snatched his keys, and left for work. No kiss. No thanks. Not even a flicker of recognition for what it took just to survive the night.
Thats when it hit mehow utterly invisible Id become.
A few days later, my best mate Charlotte popped round. One look at memessy bun, dark circles, the whole exhausted-mum vibeand her face fell. «Sophie, when did you last get proper sleep?»
I gave a tired chuckle. «Mums dont sleep, do they?»
But she didnt laugh. Cradling Oliver, she said softly, «You need help, Soph. And not just with the baby.»
Her words stung more than I expected. That evening, after putting Oliver down, I sat beside James on the sofa. The telly droned on, but I grabbed the remote and switched it off.
«James,» I said quietly, «I cant keep doing this by myself.»
He frowned. «Youre making a mountain out of a molehill. Itll get easier.»
«No,» I said, voice wobbling, «itll get easier when you step up. Im not after perfection. I just want us to be a team.»
For the first time in weeks, he actually looked at mereally lookedat the exhaustion in my eyes, the tremor in my hands. «I didnt realise you felt like this,» he admitted.
«Thats the problem,» I whispered. «You werent looking.»
The days that followed werent perfect, but they were different.
One night, James got up at 2 a.m. to feed Oliver. I woke to the sound of him humming terribly off-key, and my heart swelled. I hadnt heard him sing in ages. I lay there, tears slipping downthis time from relief.
He learned how to swaddle properly, how to wind Oliver without a fuss. He even started leaving his phone in the kitchen during our time together. It wasnt some fairy-tale change, but it was a start.
And for the first time, I dared to hope we might find our way back to each other.
Months later, with Oliver finally sleeping through, James and I sat on the garden bench one evening, the air warm and golden.
«I was scared,» he blurted out. «You always knew what to do. I thought if I tried and mucked it up, youd think I was hopeless. So I kept my distance.»
I smiled sadly. «I didnt need perfect, James. I just needed you thereeven when it was messy.»
He nodded, eyes softening. «I get that now.»
Now, when I catch him rocking Oliver to sleep, making up silly stories about pirates and dragons, I think back to those early daysthe silence, the loneliness, the exhaustion that nearly swallowed us whole.
Its too easy to lose each other in parenthood. To forget youre both learning how to be something newnot just parents, but partners all over again.
I used to think love was grand gestures, but now I know its built in the quiet, ordinary moments. The 3 a.m. feeds, the whispered reassurances, two people fumbling their way back to each other.
So when new mums message me now, saying they feel unseen, I tell them this:
Youre not weak for needing help. Youre not daft for crying in the dead of night. And if your partner doesnt notice you yetkeep speaking up. Because sometimes love just needs a nudge to remember its got work to do.
Last night, I crept into the nursery and found James asleep beside Olivers cot, his hand resting gently on our babys chest.
The telly was off. His phone was nowhere in sight.
And for the first time in ages, the quiet in our house didnt feel lonelyjust peaceful.
