My husband, Ethan, and I had promised to be honest with each other about how difficult things became.
Before the birth, we had discussed postpartum depression because we wanted to prepare for both the good and the bad. We made plans, lists, and backup plans for those plans.
We talked about therapy, nightly check-ins, and never pretending everything was fine.
Our son, Noah, was three weeks old when I first noticed Ethan was missing from bed during the night.
At first, I assumed there was a simple explanation. Maybe he was in the bathroom, getting water, or trying not to wake me because Noah had finally fallen asleep after two hours of cluster feeding.
Once, I found him in the kitchen eating cereal at 1:30 a.m., staring into the refrigerator as though it had personally betrayed him.
Then it kept happening.
I would wake in the sudden, panicked way new mothers do, instantly listening for any sound from the bassinet, and Ethan would be gone.
During the day, he seemed mostly normal. He was tired and perhaps quieter than usual, but everyone with a newborn is exhausted. Speaking itself takes energy, and that becomes precious when you survive on only a few hours of sleep.
Still, I began paying attention.
It happened around the same time most nights. I only realized that after waking from a nightmare, drenched in sweat, and checking my phone.
It was 2:07 a.m.
Ethan’s side of the bed was empty.
