Leo was born just six weeks ago, and I had never known exhaustion like this.
The kind that settled deep in my bones, that turned time into a blur of diaper changes, late-night feedings, and half-drunk cups of coffee. The kind that made me feel like I was running on fumes but still overflowing with love.
Owen and I had always been a team. We had been together for ten years, married for five. We had braved everything, from job losses and cross-country moves to a kitchen remodel that nearly ended us.
But nothing had tested us like new parenthood. I thought we were in this together.
I rocked Leo in the nursery, gently swaying back and forth in the dim glow of the nightlight. My whole body ached with exhaustion, the kind that made my eyelids heavy and my arms feel like lead.
Leo had been cluster feeding all evening, and I felt like I had barely sat down all day.
Owen appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked just as tired as I felt.
“El…” His voice was soft. “Go to bed. I’ll take him.”
I let out a breathless laugh.
“Owen, you have work in the morning,” I said, picking up my cup of tea.
“So do you,” he countered. He stepped into the room, pressing a kiss to my forehead before carefully scooping Leo from my arms. “Except that your shift never ends.”
My throat tightened.
“I see you, El,” he said. His voice was steady but filled with something raw. “You spend all day taking care of him. You keep this whole house together, cook, clean, and still somehow 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, as if something had changed overnight, Owen started pulling away.
At first, it was small things. He took longer getting home from work. He left for the store at odd hours without saying what he needed. And then, a week ago, he made a request that felt like a slap in the face.
“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 what he said. It was how he said it… like he was begging me to understand. And I didn’t. We barely had time together as it was. Why would he want to spend even less time with me?
I wanted to argue, to ask what the hell was going on. Instead, I swallowed it. Maybe this was how he was coping. Maybe this was just another adjustment.
So I agreed. I had to focus on Leo anyway. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to be a well-rested mom. Something that didn’t quite exist.
For the next week, Owen disappeared for exactly an hour every night after Leo went down. The moment the baby monitor crackled with the sound of our son’s breathing, he was gone.
And something about it gnawed at me, an unease I couldn’t shake. Where was he going?
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 monitor to check on him.
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 and then squinted. My husband, who had never so much as picked up a sewing kit in his life, was cross-legged on the carpet, watching a video on his propped-up phone.
A YouTube tutorial on finger knitting.
I turned the volume up slightly. The instructor’s soothing 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 so hard I physically jolted. A few weeks ago, Owen’s Aunt Tabitha had gifted Leo a handmade baby blanket. It was soft, textured, and impossibly cozy. I had run my fingers over the thick stitches, marveling at the craftsmanship.
“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 sat there, clutching the baby monitor, my chest tight with something too big to name. Guilt, love, and relief took over my body.
A few nights later, he cracked.
I was sitting in the living room, treating myself to a mug of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows, when Owen practically fell into the room.
“I can’t do this anymore, Elodie!” he announced, dragging me into our bedroom.
He pulled out something soft, heavy, 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.
“I… I started watching videos,” he admitted. “Finger knitting is supposed to be easier than regular knitting, but I still suck at it.”
“This is what you’ve been doing every night?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Yeah. I know you’re exhausted, El. 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 had to keep moving it so you wouldn’t find it,” he added sheepishly. “But I ran out of yarn, and I was afraid you’d come across it. So… do you want to help me pick the next color?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
Later that night, as we sat on the couch, Owen guiding my fingers through the loops of yarn, he exhaled softly.
“It’s weirdly calming, you know?”
“Yeah?” I glanced at him.
“It’s like… I’m making something tangible out of love. Stitch by stitch.”
I curled into his side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“That’s exactly what you’re doing…”
And I didn’t care how long it took him to finish. Because the best part wasn’t the blanket itself. It was knowing that every stitch, every loop, every hour spent fumbling through YouTube tutorials…
It was all him. It was all Owen.
His love, his time, his thoughtfulness.
And as I wrapped myself in his arms that night, I realized something.
Love wasn’t just in words. It wasn’t just in grand gestures. It was in the quiet, steady things.
Like finger knitting by nightlight.
