The baby’s been home for three weeks, but the house still feels like a stranger moved in.

Lonzo knew fatherhood would stretch him. He was ready for the late nights, diaper blowouts, spit-up on his favorite hoodie. He even prepped for the emotional stuff—the quiet moments of awe, the sudden panic that he’s responsible for a whole human being. But nothing prepared him for this—the silence sitting between him and his wife, thicker than anything he’s ever played through.

She’s not her lately.

Not in an obvious, “I hate everything” way. It’s subtle. She’s still gentle. Still says thank you when he brings her tea or folds laundry. Still kisses the baby’s forehead, almost absentmindedly. But the sparkle—the warmth that used to fill the room before she even walked in—it’s gone. She floats now. Barely eats. Wakes up already tired. Sits on the edge of the bed just staring, like she’s waiting for something to click back into place.

And the baby? She holds him like a stranger’s child. Feeds him, changes him, but it’s robotic. Like she’s clocking into a shift, not bonding with their son.

Lonzo’s not mad. He’s scared. Not of her—for her. And for himself, too, because he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Postpartum depression. That’s what the doctor hinted at after her second checkup. Told them it was common. Told him to be patient. To support without pressure. But it’s hard watching the woman he loves feel nothing toward the thing they created with so much love. It hurts watching her look everywhere but at the baby.

He picks up the slack. Does the 2 AM feedings. Changes diapers. Rocks the baby on his chest while scrolling articles about healing, hormones, and hope. He hums lullabies from a playlist she made when she was pregnant—songs that once made her cry from happiness. Now they just echo in the room like unfinished promises.

She cried once. Just once. Sat on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night while he held the baby asleep on his chest. She didn’t say anything, just shook her head over and over and whispered, “I feel broken.” That was it. And Lonzo didn’t know what to say except “You’re not.”

But it didn’t feel true. Not to her.

He keeps showing up anyway. Brings her snacks she used to love. Opens curtains every morning. Buys her favorite flowers and leaves them on her nightstand. Tells her she’s beautiful even when her hair’s tied up and her hoodie’s stained with breastmilk. He texts her from the other room just to say “I miss you,” even though they’re under the same roof.

Sometimes, she smiles. It’s faint, but it’s there. And once, she touched the baby’s toes and whispered, “I’m trying.” That was the first time she called him our baby since the birth.

So he keeps trying too.

Because love ain’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet meals, running warm baths, kissing foreheads, and carrying the weight when the other person can’t. It’s standing in the gap until they can stand beside you again.

And if it takes time—days, weeks, months—Lonzo’s ready to wait.

For her.

For them.