The saying goes that hindsight is 20/20, but if we’re being painfully honest, most of us can pinpoint the exact moment we felt something was off. That whisper in your spirit… that tug in your chest… that quiet knowing you bury under hope.

I can admit that now.
I couldn’t admit it then.

So I kept performing happiness, smiling through red flags, convincing myself that love plus effort plus a few vision boards could manifest the life I dreamed about. The family. The house. The future I mapped out down to the paint colors. Every curveball, every obstacle, every storm became another chance for us to prove we were “stronger together.”

Or so I thought.

Our next test came fast: back to long-distance, but this time with a 2 month old baby and me heading back to work. When he got the call to join a team in Japan, we planned for me and the baby to go too… until his mother made her opinion known:

“She needs to work.”

So I did.
And she came to stay with me to “help.”

I was grateful not to send my newborn to daycare, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel robbed. Robbed of slow mornings, of bonding, of figuring out motherhood without someone hovering over me. Her stay was a mix of polite conversations, quiet irritation, and the occasional discovery that she had gone through my things. But she was helping… so what could I really say?

Before I knew it, the month was over and it was just me and my little boy. My job reduced my hours so I could manage daycare mornings and still have beautiful slow evenings with him. Some days I felt utterly alone; other days I felt unstoppable. New motherhood is full of extremes like that.

Mr. Giant visited once mid-season, then finally came home for good right around our son’s 9 month mark. I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to pull him out of daycare. And when Mr. Giant said he’d stay home with him to make up for lost time? It felt like a blessing, emotionally and financially.

But stay-at-home-dad life wasn’t his calling.

His frustration grew fast. He felt tied down, restless, suffocated. One morning I accidentally left my phone at home, something every mom knows is an Olympic level mistake. I told my boss I needed to run back, made the 15 minute drive, and walked into a storm I didn’t see coming.

He looked annoyed.
At me.

“What are you doing here?”
“I left my phone.”
“You did that on purpose so you could check on me.”

I just… froze.
Why would I sabotage my day, leave work, and rush home…to spy on you?

I grabbed my phone and tried to leave, feeling uneasy but still thinking, He’s upset with me, not the baby. He won’t hurt him. I was halfway out of the garage, refusing to keep arguing, when it happened.

He threw the baby bottle at me.
Holding our son in one arm… and throwing a bottle with the other.
It smacked me square in the back.

It hurt.
Physically, yes.
But mentally?
It felt unreal…like I had stepped outside my own body and was watching a scene that couldn’t possibly involve me.

Still, I left.
Still, I went back to work like nothing happened.

Eventually, we put our son back in daycare to give Mr. Giant “space” during the day. A compromise. He would drop off; I would pick up.

And I told myself things were smoothing out.
Even though deep down…
I already knew the truth I wasn’t ready to say (or admit) out loud.