“Since they were born,” I admitted. “Maybe even before that, honestly. I just kept thinking it would get easier once we found some kind of rhythm.”
“Rhythm requires two people,” Diane said. “You’ve been running a marathon by yourself while he cheers from the sidelines.”
She glanced toward the nursery, where all three babies were finally sleeping, exhaustion visible in her own face despite having only just arrived.
“I don’t know how you’ve done this alone,” she said. “I had help some weeks, from my own mother, from a neighbor who used to watch the kids so I could shower in peace. You’ve had none of that.”
“I’ve had you, this week,” I said.
“That’s not nearly enough, and we both know it,” Diane said. “But it’s a start.”
Over the following days, Diane didn’t just help with the babies.
She asked careful, direct questions about the state of my marriage, questions I’d been avoiding asking myself for months.
“Does he help with night feedings?” she asked.
“Rarely,” I said. “He says he needs sleep for work.”
