My name is Lillian. I’m 29 years old and in the final month of my first pregnancy. The feeling of excitement mixed with worry seems to linger constantly around me, like I’m standing at the threshold of something miraculous but also incredibly challenging. Sometimes, when I’m alone on the old beige sofa in our little house in the suburbs of Dallas, I gently place my hand on my belly, feel the soft kicks from my baby, and whisper, “Mommy’s here.”
My husband, Nathan, is 33 and works in finance. He always says he’s busy, under a lot of pressure, and needs to “unwind” on the weekends. So almost every Friday afternoon, he drives to his parents’ house about two hours away. I’ve gotten used to being home alone, shuffling between the kitchen and living room, carrying a belly that feels heavier every day. Nathan rarely helps with anything around the house. One time I asked him to help clean the baby’s room. He just looked at me and mumbled, “You’re on maternity leave now. You’ve got more time than I do.”
I still remember a recent Saturday afternoon when I struggled to carry a sack of rice from the car into the house. Standing in the yard, sweat pouring down my face, I just wished someone would help. But he was off fishing with his dad. When I texted him, all I got was a short reply: You can handle it. You’re strong.
