Leo was born just six weeks ago, and I had never felt exhaustion like this.
The kind that seeped into my bones, that turned my days into a blur of diaper changes, late-night feedings, and half-finished cups of coffee. The kind that made my body feel heavy, but my heart so full of love I thought it might burst.
Owen and I had always been a team. We had been together for ten years, married for five. We had survived job losses, cross-country moves, and even a kitchen remodel that nearly drove us apart.
But nothing tested us like parenthood.
I sat in the dimly lit nursery, rocking Leo in my arms. My body ached from exhaustion. My eyelids were heavy, my arms weak, but I kept swaying, kept holding my baby close.
Then Owen appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked just as tired as I felt.
“El…” His voice was gentle. “Go to bed. I’ll take him.”
I let out a tired laugh. “Owen, you have work in the morning.”
“So do you,” he countered. He stepped closer, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before carefully scooping Leo from my arms. “Except your shift never ends.”
My throat tightened.
“I see you, El,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “You take care of him all day. You keep this house together. You cook, you clean, and somehow, you still make sure I’m alive and fed too. And I just…”
He sighed, bouncing Leo gently as he stirred. “I can’t let you do all of it alone. Go to bed, babe. I’ve got this.”
I felt seen. Loved. Understood. I let him take over.
Then, everything changed.
Owen started pulling away.
At first, it was small things. He took longer to get home from work. He left at odd hours without saying where he was going. And then, a week ago, he made a request that left me speechless.
“I need an hour of alone time every night after Leo’s asleep,” he said one evening, rubbing his temples. “Please, don’t disturb me, Elodie. Not unless it’s an emergency.”
It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them, like he was pleading with me to understand. And I didn’t. We already had so little time together. Why would he want even less?
I wanted to argue. I wanted to demand an explanation. But instead, I swallowed my frustration. Maybe this was his way of coping. Maybe he just needed space.
So I agreed.
For the next week, the moment Leo was asleep, Owen disappeared. And every night, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach.
Then, last night, everything changed.
It was just after midnight when Leo stirred. Not a full cry, just a soft whimper. Half-asleep, I reached for the baby monitor.
And that’s when I saw it.
At first, my exhausted brain couldn’t process what I was looking at. The camera’s night vision cast the nursery in eerie grayscale, and there, in the corner of the room, was Owen.
Sitting on the floor.
Surrounded by thick, chunky yarn.
I blinked. Then I squinted. My husband—who had never touched a sewing kit in his life—was cross-legged on the carpet, watching a video on his phone.
A YouTube tutorial on finger knitting.
I turned up the volume slightly. The instructor’s voice guided him through looping the yarn around his fingers, creating thick, interwoven stitches. Owen’s hands fumbled, frustration flickering across his face. He unraveled his progress and started again.
My breath caught in my throat. My husband wasn’t sneaking off to avoid me. He wasn’t hiding something dark. He was learning to knit. For me.
A memory hit me hard. A few weeks ago, Owen’s Aunt Tabitha had gifted Leo a handmade baby blanket. It was soft, textured, impossibly cozy. I had run my fingers over the thick stitches, marveling at how warm it felt.
“God, I wish I had a full-sized one of these,” I had said absentmindedly.
I hadn’t thought much of it.
But clearly, Owen had.
I clutched the baby monitor, my chest tight. Guilt, love, relief—all of it flooded through me at once.
The next few days, I watched Owen struggle. Not with the knitting—he was getting better at that. But with keeping the secret.
“I’m working on a surprise for you,” he blurted out at dinner one night, struggling to keep his face neutral.
“A surprise, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile.
He groaned dramatically. “Ugh, keeping it a secret is so hard.”
“Well, you’ve kept it this long. You can do it a little longer.”
But three nights later, he cracked.
I was curled up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate when Owen practically fell into the room.
“I can’t do this anymore, Elodie!” he burst out, dragging me into our bedroom.
He pulled out something soft and unfinished. A quarter-knitted blanket in my favorite color. The loops were thick, interwoven with care. I ran my fingers over them, my throat tight.
“This is what you’ve been doing every night?” I whispered.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know you’re exhausted. I know you feel like we’ve been off lately. But I wasn’t pulling away from you. I just wanted… to do this. For you.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“Owen…”
“I ran out of yarn, and I was afraid you’d find it,” he admitted sheepishly. “So… do you want to help me pick the next color?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
A few months later, Owen called me into the living room. The lights were dim, candles flickering on the coffee table. A cake sat in the middle, and Owen stood beside it, grinning.
“What… is this?” I asked, blinking in confusion.
“Leo’s half-birthday,” Owen said proudly. “Six months old today.”
I huffed out a laugh. “You know he has no idea what a birthday is, right?”
“Obviously. This isn’t for him,” he said, pulling me toward the couch. “This is for you.”
He reached behind the couch and pulled out a full-sized knitted blanket.
I gasped. “You… you finished it?”
Owen grinned. “Barely. Had to redo a few sections. And there may or may not be a couple of coffee stains.”
I launched myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He let out a surprised laugh and held me close.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He kissed my temple. “Happy six months of being the most amazing mom, El.”
Wrapped in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of something handmade, something filled with love, I felt weightless.
And I knew—without a doubt—that Owen and I were still a team.
