Brook Sofia's first night home was chaotic. She screamed for two straight hours, her little face turning red with fury, no matter what I did. I fed her, changed her, burped her, rocked her, walked with her, sang to her. Nothing worked. Preston hovered in the doorway of my bedroom where I'd set up Sofia's bassinet, his face worried. "Is baby sister okay, Mama?" "She's fine, sweetie. She's just... adjusting. It's a big change for her." My voice was shaking from exhaustion and barely suppressed panic. What if something was wrong? What if I was missing something the nurses would have caught? By midnight, I was crying as hard as Sofia. Lake had offered to stay, but I'd insisted I could handle it. I'd been so determined to prove I could do this alone. Now I was sitting on the edge of my bed at 12:47 AM, my daughter screaming in my arms, my son finally asle ep after I'd settled him back in his room for the third time, and I'd never felt more alone in my life. My phone sat on the nightstand, Tyson's message from earlier still glowing on the screen. I hope Sofia's first night home is going well. I'm thinking of you both. Of all three of you. I love you. I wanted to call him. Wanted to sob into the phone that I didn't know what I was doing, that Sofia wouldn't stop crying, that I was terrified and exhausted and I needed help. But I'd told him I could handle it. I'd insisted on doing this alone. So I k ept rocking Sofia, k ept crying, k ept praying she'd eventually wear herself out. At 1:15, she finally quieted. I held my breath, barely daring to move, as her cries turned to whimpers, then to tiny hiccups, then to blessed silence. She was asle ep. Finally, finally asle
Ep I placed her carefully in the bassinet, my whole body trembling with relief and exhaustion. Then I collapsed onto my bed fully clothed and passed out. Two hours later, Sofia was screaming again. The next morning, Lake showed up at 8 AM with coffee and bagels and took one look at me before
setting everything down and pulling me into a hug. "That bad?" she asked. "She cried for hours. Hours, Lake. I didn't know what to do. What if something's wrong? What if she's sick and I didn't—" "She's not sick. She's a newborn who spent three weeks in the NICU getting used to a very specific routine, and now everything's changed. She's adjusting. So are you." Lake pulled back, studying my face. "When did you sle ep last?" "I don't know. Two? Three?" "Go take a nap. I've got Sofia." "I can't just—" "Brook Catherine Powell, you are going to go upstairs and sle ep for at least two hours, or I'm calling Tyson to come take over so you don't collapse." Lake's voice was firm. "Your choice." The threat worked. I dragged myself upstairs and fell into bed, asle ep before my head hit the pillow. When I woke three hours later, the house was quiet. Peaceful. I stumbled downstairs to find Lake on the couch with Sofia asle ep on her chest, Preston playing quietly with his trucks on the floor. "She's been out for an hour," Lake whispered. "I changed her, fed her, and she went right down." Of course she did. Because I was the problem. Because I didn't know what I was doing. "Hey." Lake must have seen something on my face. "Stop. You're doing great. You're just exhausted and learning her patterns. It's going to get easier." I wanted to believe her. I really did. That afternoon, after Lake left and Preston went down for a nap, I sat with Sofia while she sl ept in her bassinet, just watching her breathe. My phone buzzed. Husband : How's she doing? How are you? I stared at the message, debating. Part of me wanted to lie, to say everything was perfect, to prove I didn't need him. But I was so tired. And he deserved to know about his daughter. Me : Rough first night. She's adjusting. So am I. His response came immediately. Husband : Is there anything I can do? Can I come help? Yes. God, yes. I wanted him here to take a shift, to rock Sofia while I sl ept, to tell me I wasn't failing as a mother. But I couldn't. Not yet. Not when everything was still so broken between us. Me : We're okay. Thank you for asking. The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally: Husband : Okay. But Brook, if you need anything—anything at all— please let me know. Even if it's just bringing food or watching Preston for a few hours. I want to help. I set the phone down without responding and went to make myself something to eat, ignoring the way my chest ached. Three days later, I had a system. Sort of. Sofia ate every three hours around the clock, which meant I was sle eping in ninety-minute increments at best. Preston was being surprisingly good about the chaos, but he'd started acting out—throwing tantrums over things that normally wouldn't bother him, clinging to me constantly. He missed his dad. I could see it in every question he didn't ask, every time he looked toward the door like Tyson might walk through it. At our next therapy session—just me this time, since Tyson and I were also doing individual sessions with Dr. Morrison—I finally broke down. "I can't ke ep doing this," I said, tears streaming down my face. "I'm so tired. Sofia barely sle eps. Preston's acting out. The house is a disaster. And I ke ep thinking about how it's not supposed to be like this. Tyson should be there. We were supposed to be doing this together." Dr. Morrison nodded, her expression compassionate. "It sounds like you're grieving what you thought this time would be
like." "I am. I had this whole vision of bringing Sofia home, of Tyson being there for those first few weeks, of us being a family." I wiped at my face. "Instead, I'm doing it alone, and I hate it. I hate all of it." "Do you have to do it alone?" I looked up at her. "What?" "You ke ep saying you're doing this alone, but Tyson has r epeatedly offered to help. Your support system has offered to help. You're choosing to do it alone, Brook. Why?" The question hit me like a slap. "Because... because I need to prove I can. Because he left, and I—" "He left," Dr. Morrison said gently. "And that was devastating and wrong. But he's trying to come back. He's asking to help, to be in volved, and you're shutting him out. Why?" "Because I'm angry!" The words burst out of me. "I'm so angry at him for not being there when she was born, for making me go through that alone, for doubting our son, for breaking everything. And if I let him help now, if I let him back in even a little bit, then it's like I'm saying what he did was okay. That I forgive him and I can’t do that." "Does letting him help with his children mean you forgive him?" I opened my mouth to say yes, then stopped. "I don't know." "Can you be angry at him and still let him be a father to Sofia and Preston?" Could I? I'd been so focused on protecting myself, on maintaining boundaries, on not letting him off the hook, that I hadn't thought about what I was doing to Preston. To Sofia. To myself. "I'm scared," I whispered. "I'm scared that if I let him in, he'll hurt me again." "That's a valid fear. And it's something you and Tyson need to work through together in your couples sessions." Dr. Morrison leaned forward slightly. "But Brook, punishing him by ke eping him away from the kids isn't going to heal your marriage. It's just going to make everyone miserable." She was right. I hated that she was right, but she was. "I don't know how to let him in without letting him hurt me again." "Start small. Let him come over for an hour to help with Sofia. Let him take Preston to the park. You don't have to trust him with your heart yet. But you can trust him with his children." That night, after I'd put both kids to bed and was sitting alone in the living room surrounded by the debris of the day, I picked up my phone. Me : Can you come over tomorrow? Around 2? I could use some help with Sofia while I spend time with Preston. The response was almost instant. Husband : Yes. Absolutely. Thank you. I'll be there. I stared at the message, my heart pounding. This was the right thing to do. For the kids. For all of us. So why did it feel like I was jumping off a cliff?