You thought you were ready, you were so sure you could handle the change in your body, in your life, in your everything, an all-encompassing alteration of your very own being and your surroundings.

John had been ecstatic when you’d shown him the two pink lines on the stick, immediately taking action and getting put on desk duty, taking a step back from dangerous missions so he could be by your side, a better husband, a better father. You thought you were going to be happy, too.

The weight gain, the hormonal imbalance, the nausea, the sleepless nights, the mood swings…John was patient enough to endure it all, to comfort you and gently piece you back together when you fell apart.

It broke him, seeing you so deprived of the joy that once filled your face, robbed of the enjoyment of what should’ve been one of the most beautiful milestones in the creation of a family. Still, he was excited at the prospect of meeting his future son, promising to himself he would do whatever it took to make both of you the happiest people on earth.

When you first held your baby in your arms, it was probably the most underwhelming moment of your life. You couldn’t understand how something so small had managed to drain so much out of you. It didn’t seem fair, sacrificing all of you for him.

You felt so detached from him, and from everything else, you couldn’t even properly feed him. John changed him, gave him the bottles, played with him, he was the best father your son could’ve asked for, but you…simply didn’t feel like his mother.

When John eventually had to go back to work, you tried, really tried to create a connection with your son, but he would just cry and cry and cry. You couldn’t take it anymore, locking the door to his room and crawling under the covers, hoping to tune out his crying.

Hours later, when John came home, he rushed up to your room at the sound of crying, “Love, where’s the baby?” He asked, visibly alarmed.