“I can’t stand looking at you like this,” my husband muttered before storming off to sleep in the spare room, refusing to return until I’d “sorted myself out.”
Our baby is three months old—three months of feeling like I’ve lost not just myself but the woman I once was. I’m not just a mother. I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an on-call paramedic, a human pillow for my little one to drift off on, and a verbal punching bag for everyone else. Because in this household, it seems I’m also expected to be a supermodel at the same time.
Before pregnancy, I *did* take care of myself. Not because anyone forced me—because I *wanted* to. Manicured nails, clean hair, soft skin, a figure I was proud of—I liked how I looked. Even when my belly swelled, I kept at it—eating right, swimming to stay limber. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after birth, everything shifted, as if I hadn’t just had a baby but survived a battle. My body ached like I’d been run over by a lorry. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, that gnawing fear I was doing it all wrong. I *lost* myself, yes—not because I wanted to, but because my baby drained me of every drop of energy. And no one helped.
My husband insists I’ve “let myself go,” that I simply *won’t* make the effort. I’d love to see *him* last a day in my shoes. His mother, my mother-in-law, goes further: “At your age, *I* kept up with everything—still looked lovely, kept my husband happy.” She had help—grandmothers, sisters, neighbours. Me? Nobody. My mum’s in another city. My mother-in-law drops by for five minutes a week, coos at the baby like she’s done her good deed, and vanishes. My husband? “Exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he said he found it “grotesque” to see me in a stained nightie with greasy hair thrown up in a messy bun—couldn’t I at least *try* to freshen up? A little mascara, lip gloss—was *that* so hard? Apparently, he just couldn’t bear living with a woman who’d stopped caring.
It felt like a knife. No—worse. Like he’d reached into my ribs and smeared my heart across the floor. I’m not a machine. I *hurt*. I want sleep. I want a shower. I want *silence*, just for half an hour. But none of that matters—all they see is the messy hair. The unplucked brows. *Disgusting*.
So he left. Dramatically. Like he was saying, *Come back when you’re human again.* Until then, I’m just a shadow.
My own mother was blunt: “There’s no love here. End it.” But I can’t. I *do* love him. Even now. I don’t want to tear apart our family. Don’t want my child growing up without a father. But more and more, I wonder—maybe she’s right. If he truly loved me, wouldn’t he *see* me? Not scold, but *help*? Not turn away, but *hold me*? Maybe then I’d remember what it feels like to be a woman.
I don’t know what to do. So I just keep moving. One day to the next. From sleepless nights to dawn screaming. From the baby’s cries to my husband’s accusing stare. And in the rarest moments, when the baby sleeps, I sit in the dark and try to recall the woman I was—bright, smiling, unbroken.
I whisper to the silence: *Will she ever come back?*
