The living room is hushed, save for the murmur of the telly and the gentle, hiccuping cries of my baby. I stand in the dim glow, cradling Oliver in my arms, rocking him for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. My body aches. My jumper carries the faint scent of milk and exhaustion. Tears prickle behind my eyes, but I blink them away.
On the sofa, James scrolls through his phone, one leg stretched out, a half-finished can of lager and a packet of crisps strewn across the coffee table.
Three weeks. Thats how long its been since we brought Oliver home. Three weeks of sleepless nights, endless nappy changes, and cryinghis and mine. I thought wed be in this together. I thought James would squeeze my hand and tell me I was doing brilliantly, that wed muddle through the chaos with laughter.
Instead, I might as well be a ghost.
“Could you at least help with the bottles?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
James doesnt even glance up. “Ive been at work all day, Sophie. I need a breather.”
I want to scream. A breather? Whats that? I havent had more than two hours of sleep in days. My body is still healing. My mind is fraying at the edges. But I say nothing. I just turn away, rocking Oliver until his cries fade into quiet whimpers.
That night, after finally getting him down, I perch on the edge of the bed and stare at my reflection in the darkened window. I dont recognise the woman looking backpale, drained, and utterly alone.
A few nights later, things come to a head. Oliver wont stop crying. His tiny fists clench, his face red with effort. I pace the living room, murmuring nursery rhymes I dont even believe in anymore. Every muscle in my body pleads for rest.
I glance at the sofaJames has dozed off, the telly casting flickering shadows across his face. Something inside me snaps.
I sink to the floor, holding Oliver close, and sob. I try to keep quiet, but the sound escapesraw and desperate. For a moment, I want to shake James awake, to shout, “Look at me! Look at us! Were drowning, and you dont even care!”
But I dont.
I just hold my baby tighter and whisper, “Its alright, love. Mummys here.”
The next morning, James finds me asleep on the nursery floor, Oliver still in my arms. He frowns. “Why didnt you put him in the cot?”
“Because he wouldnt stop crying,” I say softly. “I didnt want to disturb you.”
He sighs, grabs his keys, and heads out for work. No kiss. No thank you. No acknowledgment of what it took just to survive the night.
Thats when it hits mehow invisible Ive become.
A few days later, my best mate Charlotte pops round. She takes one look at memy unwashed hair, the dark circles under my eyesand gasps. “Sophie, when did you last get proper sleep?”
I force a weak laugh. “Mums dont sleep, do they?”
But she doesnt smile. She cuddles Oliver and says gently, “You need help, Soph. And not just with the baby.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. That evening, after putting Oliver down, I sit beside James on the sofa. The tellys on, but I grab the remote and switch it off.
“James,” I say quietly, “I cant do this on my own anymore.”
He frowns. “Youre overreacting. Itll get easier.”
“No,” I reply, my voice trembling, “itll get easier when you step up. When youre present. Im not asking for perfection. Im asking for you to be my partner.”
He looks at me then, properly looksat the exhaustion in my eyes, the shake in my hands. “I didnt realise you felt like this,” he says.
“Thats the problem,” I whisper. “You didnt notice.”
The next few days feel different. Not perfect, but different.
One night, James gets up at 2 a.m. to feed Oliver. I wake to the sound of him humming tunelessly, and my heart swells. I havent heard him hum in months. I lie there and cry quietlythis time with relief.
He starts learning how to swaddle, how to wind Oliver properly. He even leaves his phone on the side during family time. Its not a miracle, but its a start.
And for the first time, I feel like we might be finding our way back to each other.
Months later, after Oliver begins sleeping through the night, James and I sit on the patio one evening. The air is still, the sky tinged with gold.
“I was scared,” he admits 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 kept my distance.”
I smile sadly. “I didnt need you to be perfect, James. I just needed you beside meeven when you were scared.”
He nods, his eyes warm. “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 gap between us, the exhaustion that nearly broke me.
Its easy to lose each other in parenthood. Easy to forget youre both learning how to be something newnot just mum and dad, but partners again.
I used to think love was proven in 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.
So when new mums message me now, saying they feel unseen, 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 walk into the nursery and find James asleep beside Olivers cot, his hand resting gently on our babys chest.
The tellys off. The phones forgotten.
And for the first time in ages, the silence in our house feels peacefulnot lonely.
