Left Holding More Than the Baby: My First Days of Motherhood Alone

“You’ll be fine, Emily. My mom already said she’d check on you, and you know I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months.”

Andrew’s suitcase was already at the door, his surfboard wedged awkwardly behind it. I stood in the kitchen, my body still aching from the emergency C-section, holding our newborn son, Noah, who whimpered and rooted restlessly against my shoulder. The clock read 6:17 AM. The air still smelled faintly of hospital antiseptic and I could feel the stitches pulling with every step I took.

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Andrew, I just got home yesterday. I can barely get up the stairs. Noah won’t latch, and I haven’t slept for more than an hour at a time. Please, can’t you just postpone—”

He cut me off with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Em, I told the guys I’d be there. It’s just for a week. You’ll have help. You always handle things, babe.”

I wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to beg him to remember the vows we’d promised each other just a year ago in my parents’ backyard—how we’d sworn to face everything together. But all I managed was a nod, tears pricking at my eyes as he kissed me on the forehead, barely grazing Noah’s tiny cap. The door clicked shut, and then it was just me, my pain, and this impossibly small person who depended on me for everything.

I shuffled upstairs, every movement a reminder of how unfamiliar my body felt—stretched, stitched, leaking. Noah began to wail, his face scrunching up in desperation I recognized as my own. I tried to nurse him, fumbling with the position the lactation consultant showed me, but he screamed harder. My hands shook. I started to cry too, silent tears running down my cheeks.

The days blurred together. Andrew sent a photo of himself on the beach—smiling, tan, drink in hand. “Hope you and Noah are doing great! Miss you,” he texted. I stared at the screen, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to throw my phone. Instead, I took another painkiller and stared at the ceiling while Noah drifted fitfully to sleep on my chest.

His mother, Carol, stopped by once. She handed me a casserole, wrinkled her nose at the clutter, and clucked, “You know, I raised three by myself while working full-time. You’ll figure it out.” Then she left, promising she’d be back in a few days, though she never said when.

The loneliness was suffocating. Nights were the hardest—Noah’s cries echoing through the house, my own silent sobs answering them. I watched the sun rise through the blinds, wishing I could trade places with anyone, anywhere, as long as I didn’t have to do this alone.

On day three, my friend Rachel called. “You sound awful,” she said, not unkindly. “Want me to come over?”

“I look worse than I sound,” I joked, but it broke something in me. “I just—Rachel, I don’t know if I can do this.”

She came by with coffee and held Noah while I showered for the first time in days. Under the water, I let myself sob, the hot spray washing away the tears—and some of the bitterness. When I came out, Rachel was rocking Noah by the window. “Where’s Andrew?” she asked, quietly. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic or angry or both.

When Andrew called that night, I almost didn’t pick up. “Hey, babe! Caught some amazing waves today. How’s Noah?”

“How do you think he is?” I snapped, unable to hide the edge in my voice. “He’s three days old, Andrew. I haven’t slept, I can barely sit up, and your mom dropped off a casserole and a guilt trip.”

He was silent for a beat. “Em, I’m sorry, okay? I just—needed a break. It’s been a lot. You know?”

“A break?” I repeated, my voice rising despite my exhaustion. “From what, Andrew? You’re not the one who just had major surgery. You’re not the one up every hour feeding him. I needed you here. I need you here.”

He sighed again, and I could almost hear the ocean behind him. “I’ll be back in a few days. Try to get some sleep.”

The call ended, and I stared at the phone until the screen went dark. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to forgive him. Mostly, I just wanted help.

The week dragged on. I learned to swaddle Noah tighter, to sleep with one eye open, to change diapers in the dark. I called my mother, who drove two hours to sit with me, making tea and rubbing my aching back. I started to feel human again—just a little. But every time I looked at Andrew’s empty pillow, I wondered what it would take for him to understand what his absence had done to us.

When he finally returned, sunburned and sheepish, he kissed Noah and asked, “So, how’s my little man?”

I just looked at him. There were a hundred things I wanted to say, but none of them felt big enough, or maybe they all felt too big. I handed him Noah, watching as he fumbled with the tiny bundle, his confidence faltering.

“Emily, I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, finally meeting my eyes. “I thought you’d be okay. I didn’t realize—”

“No, Andrew, you didn’t,” I said, my voice shaking. “I needed you. We needed you. And you left.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. For the first time, I saw fear and regret flicker across his face. Maybe he would finally understand. Maybe he wouldn’t. I didn’t know what came next for us, not really. But I knew one thing: I’d survived the hardest week of my life, mostly alone, and I wasn’t the same person he’d left behind.

So, I sit here now, writing these words, wondering: How many women are left holding more than just their babies? And does love mean anything if it can’t withstand the moments when we need each other most?