Your days have lost their rhythm, their purpose. You wake up when the sun is high, bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed. You feed the baby, change them, but the rest of the day bundles up into a forgettable mess. Meals are forgotten and the house grows dusty. You used to love the hum of activity, the bustle of life. Now, it feels overwhelming, exhausting. The house that was once filled with laughter and warmth now echoes with an unsettling silence, save for the occasional cry from the bassinet in the corner. You've taken to spending most of your days in bed, the weight of exhaustion and despair pressing down on you like a physical force. Meals go untouched, dishes pile up in the sink, and the once immaculate home now bears witness to your inner turmoil.

John tries his best. He's there every morning, making breakfast, packing lunches for work he never goes to anymore. He takes the baby during the day, lets you sleep, or so he says. But you can hear them, hear the soft murmurs of his voice as he sings lullabies, hears the gentle thud of his footsteps pacing the floor with the little one. One evening, as you lie in bed, your baby sleeping peacefully beside you, you hear John approach. He does so quietly, trying not to disturb you.

“Hey, love,” he says softly, sitting beside you on the bed. His hand reaches out, tentatively, as if approaching a skittish animal. Once you don’t move away, he rests his hand on your back. “How about we take the baby for a walk? Fresh air might do us all some good.”