The living room was silent except for the faint murmur of the telly and the soft, hiccuping whimpers of my baby. Bathed in the dim glow of a lamp, I swayed gently, cradling Oliver in my arms, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time that night to lull him to sleep. My body throbbed with exhaustion. My jumper carried the faint scent of milk and fatigue. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I swallowed them down.
On the sofa, James scrolled absently through his phone, one leg propped up, a half-drunk can of lager and a packet of crisps sprawled on the coffee table before him.
Three weeks. Thats how long it had been since wed brought Oliver home. Three weeks of sleepless nights, endless feedings, and cryinghis and mine. Id imagined wed face this together. Id thought James would squeeze my hand and tell me I was doing brilliantly, that wed weather the storm side by side, laughing through the madness.
Instead, I was invisible.
Could you at least help with the bottles? I asked, my voice barely holding steady.
James didnt glance up. Ive been at work all day, Sophie. I need a breather.
I wanted to scream. A *breather*? What was that? I hadnt had more than two hours of sleep in days. My body was still mending, my mind fraying at the edges. But I said nothing. I just turned away, rocking Oliver until his cries ebbed into faint whimpers.
That night, after finally settling him, I perched on the edge of the bed, staring at my reflection in the darkened window. The woman gazing back was a strangerpale, hollow-eyed, utterly alone.
A few nights later, everything snapped. Oliver wouldnt stop wailing, his tiny fists clenched, his face scarlet with frustration. I paced the living room, murmuring nursery rhymes I no longer believed in, my body screaming for rest.
I glanced at the sofaJames was fast asleep, the telly casting flickering shadows across his face. Something inside me shattered.
I crumpled to the floor, clutching Oliver to my chest, and let out a ragged sob. I tried to stifle it, but the sound tore freeraw, desperate. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to shake James awake, to scream, *Look at us! Were drowning, and you dont even care!*
But I didnt.
I just held my baby tighter and whispered, Its alright, love. Mummys here.
The next morning, James found me asleep on the nursery floor, Oliver still in my arms. He frowned. Why didnt you put him in his cot?
Because he wouldnt stop crying, I murmured. I didnt want to disturb you.
He sighed, snatched up his keys, and left for work. No kiss. No thanks. No acknowledgement of the nights Id barely survived.
That was when I truly understoodI had vanished from his sight.
A few days later, my best mate Charlotte dropped by. She took one look at memy unwashed hair, the dark smudges beneath my eyesand gasped. Sophie, when was the last time you slept?
I gave a hollow laugh. Mums dont sleep, do they?
But she didnt smile. She cradled Oliver and said softly, You need help, Soph. Not just with the baby.
Her words struck deeper than Id expected. That evening, after putting Oliver down, I sat beside James on the sofa. The telly droned on, but I snatched the remote and switched it off.
James, I said quietly, I cant do this alone anymore.
He frowned. Youre overreacting. Itll get easier.
No, I said, my voice trembling, itll get easier when you *try*. When you show up. Im not asking for perfection. Im asking for partnership.
For the first time in weeks, he really looked at meat the exhaustion in my eyes, the shake in my hands. I didnt realise you felt like this, he admitted.
Thats the problem, I whispered. You didnt see me.
The days that followed were different. Not perfect, but different.
One night, James woke at two in the morning to feed Oliver. I stirred to the sound of him humming tunelessly, and my heart swelled. I hadnt heard him sing in months. I lay there, tears slipping quietlythis time out of relief.
He learned how to swaddle properly, how to burp Oliver without a fuss. He even started leaving his phone on the sideboard during family time. It wasnt a miracle, but it was a start.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe we were finding our way back to each other.
Months later, once Oliver began sleeping through the night, James and I sat on the porch one evening, the air still, the sky painted in shades of gold.
I was terrified, he confessed suddenly. You always seemed to know what to do. I thought if I tried and mucked it up, youd think I was hopeless. So I stayed out of the way.
I smiled faintly. I didnt need you to be perfect, James. I just needed you beside meeven when you were scared.
He nodded, his expression softening. I see that now.
Now, when I watch him rocking Oliver to sleep, whispering silly tales, I think back to those early daysthe silence, the distance, the exhaustion that nearly tore us apart.
Its easy to lose each other in parenthood. Easy to forget youre both learning to be something newnot just mother and father, but partners once again.
I used to think love was proved in grand gestures. Now I know its built in the small, quiet momentsin the dead of night, with a baby crying and two people trying, truly trying, to find 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 at three in the morning. And if your partner doesnt see you yetkeep speaking up. Because sometimes love just needs reminding its got work to do.
Last night, I walked into the nursery and found James fast asleep beside Olivers cot, his hand resting gently on our babys chest.
The telly was off. His phone abandoned.
And for the first time in so long, the quiet in our home felt peacefulnot lonely.
