A nurse gently placed our daughter in my arms. Lily. Seven pounds of warmth and promise.
I asked Ryan if he wanted to hold her. He nodded and took her carefully, cradling her as though she were made of glass. But as he looked down at her face, something changed. The light drained from his expression, replaced by something distant and guarded.
After only a moment, he handed her back to me.
“She’s beautiful,” he said, but his voice sounded strained, almost rehearsed.
I brushed it off. We had both been through something traumatic. I told myself he was exhausted, overwhelmed, adjusting.
At first, I was willing to explain everything away.
The Distance That Kept Growing
Once we were home, his behavior didn’t improve. Ryan did everything a new father was supposed to do. He helped with feedings, diaper changes, late-night soothing. But something was missing.
He avoided looking directly at Lily’s face.
When he held her, his eyes drifted elsewhere. When I suggested taking photos together, he always found a reason to step away. He seemed present in action, but absent in emotion.
Then came the nights.
I would wake up in the early hours and reach for him, only to find the bed empty. Soon after, I’d hear the quiet click of the front door.
At first, I told myself he needed air. Or time alone. New parent stress affects people differently, I reasoned.
But by the fifth night in a row, my unease hardened into fear.
