Before becoming a mother, I thought I understood tired. But then Emma was born, and exhaustion reached new depths.One Friday morning, Mark told me to go grab coffee, insisting he could handle our newborn alone. I was skeptical—he’d never been left alone with Emma before—but I went anyway.

At the coffee shop, I tried to relax, but my mind kept drifting back to home. My phone rang, and when I heard a woman’s laugh in the background, panic set in. Mark had called in someone, and I raced home, imagining the worst.

But when I arrived, Emma was happily playing on the changing table, and our neighbor, Linda, was helping Mark with a massive blowout. Mark was flustered but relieved, and Linda had come to the rescue.

“I didn’t want to screw this up,” Mark admitted. “I want to be the dad Emma deserves.”I hugged him, holding back tears. That moment marked a shift. Mark stepped up—night shifts, diaper duty, and even learning to soothe Emma during teething. He was trying, and that made all the difference.A few weeks later, after Emma was asleep, Mark surprised me with a spa night at home and a dinner he’d prepared. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And for the first time in months, I felt full—filled with love, effort, and partnership.