Cribless, Diaperless: The Heartbreak of Coming Home

“Where’s the crib, Dave?” My voice cracked as I stood in the doorway, clutching the infant carrier with my daughter—tiny, pink, and sleeping—still buckled inside. The house smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old takeout. Boxes of baby gear sat unopened in the living room, and the nursery—her nursery—was nothing but a bare room with a paint sample taped to the wall.

Dave was at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop, phone pressed to his ear. His eyes flicked to me, wide and guilty, then to the baby. “I—I’m sorry, Amy. The boss called. We had a client emergency. I was going to—”

I felt the weight of her carrier dig into my palm. “You were going to what? She’s here, Dave. Our daughter is here.” My voice was louder than I intended. The baby stirred, whimpered. My heart twisted. I set her down—on the couch, because there was nowhere else—and tried to breathe.

He hung up, finally, and stood there, looking small and lost in his own home. “I’ll set up the crib right now. I just—work’s been hell. You know how it is.”

Did I know how it was? I had just spent three days in the hospital, alone for most of it because Dave’s boss demanded overtime, because the world kept turning even when my life had split in two. I had bled, I had cried, I had learned to swaddle in the pale hospital light. I had waited for the moment we’d come home as a family.

And now home was chaos. No crib, no diapers, no wipes. Boxes stacked and mocking. My mother—who lives in Oregon—offered to fly out, but Dave insisted we could handle it. I believed him. Maybe I needed to believe him.

I scooped my daughter into my arms and walked to the unmade nursery. The walls were still the faded blue from when the last tenants lived here. I sat on the floor and rocked her, tears sliding down my cheeks. The hum of Dave’s drill started up in the hallway. Too little, too late.

Later that night, after a drive to Target for diapers and formula—awkward, both of us silent in the car—I nursed the baby in the living room. Dave watched from across the room, his face in shadow.

“I’m sorry, Amy. I really tried.”

“Did you?” I wanted to shout, to ask how a spreadsheet or a Zoom call could matter more than this. But I didn’t. Instead, I cried quietly into my daughter’s hair.

The days blurred. Dave left early, returned late. Each morning, I woke to a cold crib and a colder bed. I learned to change diapers on the floor, to warm bottles with one hand while bouncing my daughter with the other. My phone lit up with congratulations and flower emojis—friends who posted perfect nursery photos on Instagram. I scrolled through their lives, their families, their husbands holding tiny babies and smiling wide.

One afternoon, Dave’s mother called. She meant well, but her words stung. “You should be grateful, Amy. Dave works so hard for you both. Back in my day, we made do.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask if making do meant sitting in the dark at 2 a.m., sobbing because you couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged you. Instead, I thanked her, hung up, and locked myself in the bathroom just to breathe.

When Dave came home that night, I lost it.

“I can’t do this by myself!” I shouted. The baby, startled, began to wail. I hated myself for that. But the words spilled out—about the loneliness, the fear, the resentment. About how every day felt like drowning.

Dave looked at me like I’d slapped him. “I’m doing my best, Amy. I can’t just quit. We need my job.”

“I know. But I need you.” Tears choked me. “She needs you.”

He stared at his hands. “I don’t know how to help. I’m scared too.”

For a moment, the anger between us softened. We sat together on the floor, our daughter between us. Dave reached out, his hand shaking, and stroked her tiny head. “She’s so small, Amy. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“We already are.” I whispered. “But we can fix it.”

That night, we cobbled together a plan. Dave asked his boss for a week off—unpaid, but necessary. We called my mother, who booked the next flight. We built the crib together, Dave reading the instructions while I held the pieces. We cried, we laughed, we argued. But for the first time since coming home, we were a team.

It wasn’t perfect. Some nights, Dave fell asleep on the couch, exhausted. Some mornings, I still woke up angry. But slowly, our house became a home. The nursery filled with warmth—photos, baby blankets, the soft patter of feet as my mother came to help.

I posted a picture on Instagram, our little girl nestled in my arms, the crib behind us. The caption was simple: “It’s not what I imagined, but it’s ours.”

Sometimes I wonder—how many women come home from the hospital to chaos instead of celebration? How many of us sit in silent disappointment, wondering if we’re the only ones who feel so utterly, completely alone? If you’ve ever felt this way, what helped you through?