I got mastitis, had a fever, and still did night feedings. He said I was being dramatic.
When Mia became a mother, she knew it wouldn’t be glamorous—but she didn’t expect to feel invisible.
Her daughter was only three weeks old when the pain started. A deep, stabbing ache in her chest. At first, she brushed it off as soreness from breastfeeding. But by the second night, she was shivering, flushed, and couldn’t lift her arms without crying out.
“It’s just exhaustion,” her husband Ryan said, turning over in bed. “You need to toughen up.”
The fever hit 102. She called her OB, who immediately said it was mastitis—a breast infection common in new moms. Rest, fluids, antibiotics, warm compresses. But how could she rest?
The baby needed to be fed every 2–3 hours. Diapers needed changing. Laundry was piling up. Ryan didn’t believe she was “sick enough” to stop.
“You’re on leave. This is your job now,” he said flatly.
Mia sat on the bathroom floor, the hot water bottle clutched to her chest, milk leaking, tears silent. She wasn’t asking for luxury. Just help. Kindness. A break from being strong.
Her mom offered to come help. Ryan refused. “We don’t need people in our space,” he said. “It’ll just cause drama.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Mia: she was the one burning with fever, yet he was the one worried about inconvenience.
One night, when the fever spiked again, Mia passed out in the hallway—baby in the bassinet nearby. Ryan found her, panicked, and called for an ambulance.
She was hospitalized for dehydration and severe mastitis.
At the hospital, for the first time in weeks, she slept. Nurses held the baby. She was fed. Seen. Heard.
And Ryan? He sat beside her bed, guilt creeping across his face. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” he whispered.
“No,” she replied. “You didn’t want to know.”
It wasn’t rage she felt—it was grief. Grief for the support she thought she had. For the partner she imagined he’d be.
Back home, things shifted—but carefully. Ryan started asking questions. Changing diapers. Offering help instead of judgment. Not because she demanded it—but because he saw what neglect looked like, up close.
Mia didn’t forget. She didn’t pretend it hadn’t hurt. But she gave him a chance—to show up differently.
Because sometimes, rock bottom in parenting isn’t about the baby. It’s about realizing who’s truly in your corner… and who needs to earn their place back.
