The living room was silent except for the faint murmur of the telly and my babys quiet, hiccuping whimpers. I stood in the dim glow, cradling Oliver in my arms, trying to calm him for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. My body ached. My jumper carried the faint scent of milk and exhaustion. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I swallowed them back.
On the sofa, James scrolled through his phone, one leg stretched out, a half-drunk can of lager and a packet of crisps scattered on the coffee table.
Three weeks. Thats how long it had been since wed brought Oliver home. Three weeks of sleepless nights, endless nappy changes, and cryinghis and mine. Id imagined wed face it together. I thought James would hold my hand and tell me I was doing brilliantly, that wed muddle through the chaos as a team.
Instead, I might as well have been a ghost.
“Could you at least help with the bottles?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
James didnt even glance up. “Ive been at work all day, Sophie. I need a breather.”
I wanted to scream. A breather? What was that? I hadnt slept more than two hours straight in days. My body was still healing. My mind was fraying. But I said nothing. I just turned away, rocking Oliver until his cries faded into tiny sighs.
That night, after finally settling him, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my reflection in the darkened window. I barely recognised the woman looking backpale, drained, and utterly alone.
A few nights later, everything came to a head. Oliver wouldnt stop wailing. His tiny fists clenched, his face red with frustration. I paced the living room, murmuring lullabies I no longer believed in. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest.
I glanced at the sofaJames had dozed off, the telly flickering across his face. Something inside me shattered.
I sank to the floor, clutching Oliver to my chest, and sobbed. I tried to keep quiet, but the sound tore from meraw and desperate. For a moment, I wanted to shake James awake, to shout, “Look at me! Look at us! Were sinking, and you dont even notice!”
But I didnt.
I just held my baby tighter and whispered, “Its all right, 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 settle,” I said softly. “I didnt want to disturb you.”
He sighed, snatched his keys, and left for work. No kiss. No thanks. No acknowledgement of what it took just to survive the night.
That was the moment I realised how utterly unseen I was.
A few days later, my best friend Charlotte popped round. She took one look at memy unwashed hair, the shadows under my eyesand gasped. “Sophie, when did you last sleep?”
I gave a weak laugh. “Mums dont sleep, do they?”
But she didnt smile. She cradled Oliver and said gently, “You need help, Soph. And not just with the baby.”
Her words struck deeper than I expected. That evening, after putting Oliver down, I sat beside James on the sofa. The telly was on, but I grabbed the remote and switched it off.
“James,” I said quietly, “I cant do this by myself anymore.”
He frowned. “Youre overreacting. Itll get easier.”
“No,” I said, my voice trembling, “itll get easier when you step up. When youre present. Im not asking for perfection. Im asking for you to be here.”
He finally looked at mereally lookedtaking in the exhaustion in my eyes, the shake in my hands. “I didnt realise you felt like this,” he said.
“Thats the problem,” I whispered. “You didnt see.”
The next few days felt different. Not perfect, but different.
One night, James got up at 2 a.m. to feed Oliver. I woke to the sound of him humming tunelessly, and my heart swelled. I hadnt heard him sing in ages. I lay there and cried silentlythis time with relief.
He learned how to swaddle, how to burp Oliver properly. He even started leaving his phone on the side during family time. It wasnt a fairy-tale transformation, but it was a start.
And for the first time, I felt like we might be finding our way back to each other.
Months later, after Oliver began sleeping through, James and I sat on the back step one evening. The air was still, the sky tinged with gold.
“I was scared,” he admitted suddenly. “You always knew what to do. I thought if I tried and messed up, youd think I was hopeless. So I kept my distance.”
I smiled sadly. “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 catch him rocking Oliver to sleep, whispering silly tales, I think back to those early daysthe silence, the distance, the weariness that nearly broke us.
Its easy to lose each other in parenthood. Easy to forget that both of you are learning how to be something newnot just parents, but partners again.
I used to think love was proved by grand gestures, but Ive learned its built in small, quiet moments. In the dead of night, with a baby crying and two people tryingreally tryingto find their way back to each other.
So when new mums message me now, saying they feel invisible, I tell them:
Youre not weak for needing help. Youre not daft for crying at 3 a.m. And if your partner doesnt see you yetkeep speaking up. Because sometimes, love just needs a nudge to remember its got work to do.
Last night, I walked into the nursery and found James asleep beside Olivers cot, his hand resting gently on our babys chest.
The telly was off. His phone untouched.
And for the first time in so long, the quiet in our house felt peacefulnot lonely.
