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<\/p>\nMy name is Lillian. I\u2019m 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\u2019m standing at the threshold of something miraculous but also incredibly challenging. Sometimes, when I\u2019m 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, \u201cMommy\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n
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My husband, Nathan, is 33 and works in finance. He always says he\u2019s busy, under a lot of pressure, and needs to \u201cunwind\u201d on the weekends. So almost every Friday afternoon, he drives to his parents\u2019 house about two hours away. I\u2019ve 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\u2019s room. He just looked at me and mumbled, \u201cYou\u2019re on maternity leave now. You\u2019ve got more time than I do.\u201d<\/p>\n
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:\u00a0You can handle it. You\u2019re strong.<\/i><\/p>\n
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