Unprepared: The Night I Realized I Was Alone in Parenthood
“Where are the diapers?” I whispered, my arms trembling under the weight of my newborn, the hospital wristband still clinging to my skin. The living room looked like a frat house after finals week: pizza boxes on the coffee table, dirty socks on the floor, empty beer cans crowding the TV stand. I could hear the faint hum of the Xbox from the bedroom. It was 7 p.m., the first night home after thirty-six grueling hours of labor, and my partner, Jake, hadn’t even bothered to meet us at the door.
“Jake!” I called, voice cracking. “Can you help me?”
No answer. I looked down at Eli, his face scrunched in a pre-cry grimace, and felt my own bottom lip tremble. All I wanted was to lay him in the crib, swaddle him tight, and collapse. But there was no crib—just the empty corner where we’d planned to put it. No diapers, no wipes, not even the formula the pediatrician had insisted we keep on hand. I might as well have been dropped on the moon with nothing but a baby and a diaper bag.
Jake finally appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Oh, hey babe. You’re back.”
I stared at him, too exhausted to shout. “Where’s the stuff we talked about? The diapers? The crib? Did you get anything ready?”
He shrugged, not meeting my gaze. “I had a crazy week at work, babe. Figured we could get it all together now that you’re back.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. Instead, with every ounce of strength I had left, I pressed Eli to my chest and walked past Jake, into the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled from the night before I went into labor. I sat on the edge, Eli’s head on my shoulder, and tried to steady my breathing.
Jake hovered in the doorway. “Look, I’ll go out now. I can get the stuff.”
“It’s late. The stores are closing,” I choked out. “Why didn’t you do this last week?”
He looked away. “You know how it is. Work’s been insane. I thought… I thought you’d handle it.”
That was it. The words I’d feared but never expected to hear: I thought you’d handle it. Like birthing a child meant I had to do everything else, too.
The tears finally came. Hot, angry, silent. I rocked Eli, my mind spinning. What if he got sick? What if I needed help in the middle of the night? What if Jake never stepped up?
Hours passed. Jake left to find a 24-hour pharmacy, but I was alone, staring at the ceiling with a crying baby and a heart full of fear. When he returned, he dropped a plastic bag on the kitchen table—diapers, wipes, a can of formula, all the wrong brands, nothing from our registry. I wanted to be grateful, but I couldn’t be.
The next day, I called my mother.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do. Jake didn’t prepare anything. I’m so tired. I can’t do this alone.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming over. But you need to talk to Jake. This isn’t just about baby stuff.”
When she arrived, she hugged me tight, then marched into the kitchen. “Jake, we need to talk.”
I heard her voice, steely and calm, as she told him what I was too scared to say: “You’re a father now, not a roommate. Grow up.”
That night, after Mom left and Eli finally slept, Jake and I faced each other in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice thick with guilt. “I guess I just… panicked. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I need you to learn,” I whispered. “I can’t do this alone.”
He nodded, but I saw the uncertainty in his eyes. Part of me wanted to forgive him, to trust he’d figure it out. Another part wanted to pack up and leave, raise Eli on my own rather than risk constant disappointment.
The days blurred together. Jake tried—he changed diapers, washed bottles, even bought a crib. But every mistake, every forgotten bottle or skipped midnight feeding, felt like a crack in the foundation of our family. I resented him for making me teach him how to care, for needing instructions when all I wanted was a partner, not another child.
One afternoon, as I sat feeding Eli, Jake slumped beside me.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I never saw my dad do any of this stuff. I don’t know how to be a dad.”
“Do you want to learn?” I asked, fighting tears.
He nodded. “I do. I just… I need you to help me.”
It wasn’t the answer I wanted. But it was something.
So I taught him. How to check the water temperature. How to swaddle. How to hold Eli when he screamed for hours. I watched him fumble and fail, watched myself harden and soften in turn.
Three months later, we’re still learning. Some days, Jake is the partner I always hoped for—loving, attentive, present. Other days, I feel like I’m carrying the weight alone. But I know now that I can do it, with or without him. That I am enough for my son, even when the world feels too much.
Sometimes I wonder: How many women are handed both the baby and the burden? How many of us are left to wonder if we’re strong enough to do it alone? I want to know—what would you do if your partner failed you at the worst possible moment? Would you stay and fight, or would you walk away?