"It Simon's eight-month birthday," Lisa mentioned beaming down at our child sucking his bottle in her arms. Simon spit the bottle out and it landed in her lap. “Ah-boom” she squealed with a smile, eliciting a screech from Simon that you could only tell was a laugh from the open baby grin on his face. I missed her smile. I hadn’t seen her this happy since before the baby.

“That’s cute” I replied, feeling the beginnings of a rejoicing grin tickle my face.

I wanted to stay in the moment but my mind kept wandering. I kept hearing Simon’s piercing cries the day I realized what was wrong.

***

I was at the foot of the stairwell after my first full day back at work when I heard him wailing. I garnered begrudging looks from neighbors as I climbed up the steps to our second floor apartment. “Lisa,” I called walking into the dark apartment, trying to keep my tone even and calm. I could tell from the moment I had opened the door that Simon desperately needed a diaper change. She was sitting on our bed facing the wall rocking back and forth as Simon howled in his motionless bassinet across the room.

***

Now she looked right at me, “I’m really excited for his nine-month birthday.” We mirrored each-others dimples as we exchanged smiles. I couldn’t believe she was finally engaging our child... or me.

“Why’s that?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around her, peeking down at Simon from over her shoulder.

“Because that means he's been alive as long as he's been in the womb,” she replied softly, hugging Simon closer to her, “as long as he was incubated inside me.”

I swept away the blonde strands of hair framing her face to whisper in her ear “I like it when you say incubated. It’s cute”

She looked up at me like the way she did when I found her that day staring at the wall.
***

“Lisa?” I had softly called inching toward her. She did not have the wild deranged look that I’d associated with postpartum depression. Her face was placid, almost tranquil. I glanced at our baby in the corner as I prepared to swoop him up in my arms and soothe him. But mid-step I stopped and turned around.

“Lisa” I said sitting down next to her. She looked up at me, her eyes glazed over, almost as if she was coming out of a trance. “Honey, did you hear Simon crying?” I asked as gently as I could.
She tilted her head considering her present situation. An, “oh,” escaped her lips as she lowered her head and into her lap. “I…” she said with Simon’s crying in the background, “I, I…” and then her sobbing cut her off.

“I know, it’s ok,” I whispered trying to put her out of her misery. She collapsed on me and continued crying into my chest. “Shhh shhh shhh” I said as I rubbed her back.

After a few moments I had gotten up to tend to Simon. After changing his diaper and bundling him into a tight swaddle I returned back to my spot next to Lisa. “Look,” I prompted her, “he’s ok.” She turned towards us, but she seemed to look right through us at the door behind me. She kept her distance, no longer leaning into me for support. It was as if I had to choose between her and our newborn.

***

But now Simon is eight months old. And now she can hold our baby. And all three of us can be a family cuddling on the couch considering the time our child has been living in our world, where we can love him together, instead of isolated in my wife’s womb, where she had to carry the burden alone.

All of a sudden Simon’s face contorted and he started whimpering. “Simon!” Lisa cooed trying to pacify him. She stuck the bottle back in his mouth. “I know, it’s ok,” she whispered. “Shhh shhh shhh.”