When our daughter, Lizzy, was born five years ago, everything shifted. Suddenly, there was this tiny human who depended on us for everything, and I’d never felt more terrified or more complete.
I remember watching Sophia hold her for the first time, whispering promises about all the things she’d teach her. I remember those 3 a.m. feedings where we’d both stumble around like zombies, taking turns rocking Lizzy back to sleep.
We were exhausted, yes, but we were happy. We were a team.
Sophia went back to work after six months. She’s a department head in marketing at a big firm downtown — one of those people who thrive on deadlines and presentations and making impossible things happen. I supported that completely.
My job wasn’t exactly 9-to-5 either, but we made it work. We had a routine. Sophia picked up Lizzy from kindergarten most days since my hours ran later. We’d have dinner together, give Lizzy a bath, and read her stories. Normal stuff. Good stuff.
We didn’t fight much. The usual married couple bickered about things like who forgot to buy milk, whether we needed a new car, or why the dishes were still in the sink. Nothing ever made me question whether we were solid.
