Fair.
And yet, somehow, even as I lay there being mended like an old sock, everything felt… possible.
I swallowed. “We need to promise something.”
Dan looked at me, suddenly serious. “What?”
“That we don’t let this ruin us.”
He didn’t answer straight away.
“This is our last baby,” I added. “Right?”
“Definitely,” he said quickly.
“We have to remember us,” I said. “Not just Mum and Dad. Emma and Dan.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want to lose that.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said. His voice didn’t waver. He meant it.
I believed him.
That’s the part that hurt the most.
It felt cinematic, like one of those moments where the music swells and you’re sure everything will be okay.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
The cracks came back fast. Faster than I expected. Days, maybe hours. The newborn bubble hits differently when you already have two loud, needy children who do not care that you’re healing or emotional or running on fumes.
With Oscar, we’d had bliss. Dan on paternity leave. Walks into town. Coffee dates like we were in a rom-com.
With Sophie, reality arrived.
Two kids was chaos. Sleep vanished. Patience followed. By the time things settled, Dan and I were functional. Polite. Our evenings reclaimed but hollow. Sex returned carefully, quietly, like something scheduled rather than felt.
We told ourselves it was normal. A phase. That we’d find our way back.
And then Ruby happened.
Unplanned. Terrifying. And somehow, against all logic, hopeful.
So when I lay there in that hospital bed, Ruby between us, Dan’s hand in mine, the promise felt real. Necessary. Sacred.
We would do this differently.
We would protect us.
We would not become strangers who only spoke about nappies and bills.
Dan kissed my hair. “We’ve got this.”
I closed my eyes and held onto that moment as tightly as I could.
Because I didn’t know yet how quickly promises crack under sleep deprivation.
