After I Gave Birth & My Husband Saw the Face of Our Baby, He Began Sneaking Out Every Night – So I Followed Him

Julia expects her husband to support her during her recuperation after she almost dies after childbirth.

Instead, when he sees the face of their newborn daughter, he grows aloof and begins to vanish every night. When his family most needs him, what could possible motivate a new parent to desert them?

I believed that the most terrifying aspect of motherhood would be giving birth to a girl, and I nearly died doing it. I was mistaken.

It took eighteen exhausting hours to complete. Everything that was possible went wrong.

My blood pressure rose and then fell. I saw the medical staff exchange those glances that no patient ever likes to witness as the constant beeping of the monitors turned into panicked alarms.

Dr. Martinez stated, “We need to get this baby out now,” in a composed yet forceful tone.

I recall holding Ryan’s hand so firmly that I was afraid I may shatter his fingers. “Stay with me, Julia,” he continued to croon in my ear. Remain with me. Without you, I couldn’t accomplish this.”

Everything went black for a second.

I felt as like I was floating away from everything, the noise subsided, and the anguish vanished. I managed to fight my way back, though. Perhaps I was anchored by Ryan’s voice, or perhaps it was just my unwavering will to meet our child.

Hours later, I finally woke up, and the first thing I noticed was Ryan’s weary face above me.

His hair was a complete mess, his eyes were rimmed in crimson from sobbing, and he appeared to have aged ten years in a single night.

“She’s here,” he muttered, his voice full of passion. “She’s perfect.”

Our kid was brought over by the nurse at that point. Lily.

She was flawless, weighing seven pounds and two ounces.

I said to Ryan, “Do you want to hold her?”

He took Lily from the nurse with care after nodding. However, as he gazed down at her face, an odd thing occurred.

His face changed from one of delight to one of something I couldn’t quite place. It appeared as though a shadow moved across his face.

After giving her a lengthy look, he swiftly returned her to me.

He said, “She’s beautiful,” but it sounded forced. “Just like her mama.”

I attributed his strange conduct to fatigue during the course of the following few days in the hospital. After all, we had both experienced hell.

However, things deteriorated as we adapted to life at home.

When Ryan held Lily, he stopped staring at her. His eyes would focus just above her head as if he were trying to avoid looking at her when he fed her or changed her diaper.

He would find reasons to leave the room when I tried to shoot those adorable baby pictures that every couple shares on social media.

“I need to check the mail,” he’d say, or “I should start dinner.”

However, roughly two weeks after we got back home, the true warning sign appeared. Our front door would softly close when I woke up in the middle of the night to find my bed vacant.

When it first occurred, I thought he was checking something outdoors or getting some fresh air. Perhaps worry from being a new father.

I realized that something was very awry on the fifth night.

“Ryan, where were you last night?” Trying to sound informal, I asked him over breakfast.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he remarked, his eyes fixed on his coffee. “Went for a drive.”

I made a choice at that point that would alter everything. I was going to find out exactly where my husband was going if he was sneaking away every night while I was at home by myself with our baby.

I feigned going to bed early the following night. I lay motionless, listening to Ryan’s breathing next to me until it became steady and deep.

I heard him slide out of bed at precisely midnight. He walked down the corridor on tiptoe, the floors creaking faintly.

As I waited for the front door to close, my heart pounded against my ribs. I acted as soon as I was certain he was gone.

I hastily put on a hoodie and jeans, picked up my keys, and slipped out. Already, Ryan’s vehicle was pulling out of our driveway.

I started my own car and followed at a safe distance after waiting for him to turn the bend.

For what seemed like an eternity, he drove. His automobile passed through our suburban neighborhood, past the mall where we used to go on date evenings to have ice cream, and into parts of the city that I hardly knew.

Ryan finally arrived to the parking area of what appeared to be an old community center after driving for over an hour. The structure was dilapidated, with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign that said “Hope Recovery Center.”

I could see warm light coming from the windows of a few other cars that were strewn all around the lot.

Ryan stayed in his car for a few minutes, perhaps gaining courage, while I parked behind a big truck. Then he stepped out, his shoulders slumped downward as he headed toward the building.

What was this location? Was my spouse ill? Did he have a romantic partner? I ran through all the horrible possibilities in my head.

I waited ten more minutes before stealthily approaching the structure. I heard voices coming from a half-open window.

It sounded like a group of individuals conversing in a circle.

“The hardest part,” a man’s voice was saying to me, “is when you look at your kid and all you can think about is how you almost lost everything that matters.”

My eyes grew wide with disbelief. That voice was incredibly familiar to me.

To obtain a better view through the window, I stepped closer.

There were about twelve people seated in a circle of folding chairs inside. And there was Ryan, right in front of me.

His shoulders were trembling and his head was in his hands.

“I keep having these nightmares,” he said to the group. “She appears to be in discomfort. The physicians are running around, as I can see. I picture myself holding this ideal child while my wife passes away next to me. I can’t even look at my baby without recalling that moment because I feel so angry and powerless.”

A woman on the other side of the circle gave a pitying nod. “Everyone experiences trauma in a different way, Ryan. For partners who witness challenging births, what you’re going through is quite normal.

When Ryan raised his head, I saw tears running down his cheeks. “More than everything in the world, I adore my wife. I also adore my daughter. But all I can think about when I look at Lily is how nearly I lost Julia. How I could do nothing to assist her. I’m afraid that something will happen to ruin this lovely life we’ve created once more if I grow too close to it.”

Leaning forward was the group leader, an elderly woman with gentle eyes. One of the most prevalent reactions we observe here is a fear of bonding following trauma. Ryan, you’re not broken. You’re getting better.”

Now that my own tears were streaming freely, I fell beneath the glass. It had nothing to do with another woman. It wasn’t that he didn’t love us. This story was about a man who was so traumatized by nearly losing his wife that he was unable to accept the happiness that his new daughter brought him.

He had been covertly receiving assistance to become the father Lily deserved all these time, while I had been wondering if he regretted having her.

For another half hour, I squatted under that window and listened to my husband open up to a group of strangers.

He described the nightmares that kept him up at night. He talked about how he would repeatedly relive those harrowing moments in the birth room. He even acknowledged that he had been avoiding physical contact with Lily out of concern that his dread would somehow spread to her.

Telling the group, “I don’t want her to sense my anxiety,” “You do realize that babies can sense that stuff? Until I can be the father daughter deserves, I’d prefer to stay away.”

The leader of the group gave a knowing nod. “Ryan, what you’re doing requires tremendous strength. However, you don’t have to heal by yourself. Have you thought about involving Julia in this procedure?

Ryan gave a swift shake of his head. “This pregnancy nearly killed her. Having to worry about my mental health on top of everything else is the last thing she needs. She’s had enough.”

In that parking lot, my heart shattered into a million pieces. How was Ryan handling everything on his own?

I hurried back to my car and went home as quickly as I could after the meeting.

I had to retire to bed before Ryan returned, but more than that, I needed time to absorb what I had just discovered.

The following morning, I decided. I made a call to the Hope Recovery Center when Lily was sleeping and Ryan was at work.

I said, “Hi,” when someone responded. “My name is Julia. I would like to know if there is a way for me to participate in your support group sessions, as I believe my spouse has been attending.”

The receptionist was really friendly. “On Wednesday nights, we have a partners’ support group. Would you be interested in going?

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “I’ll be there.”

I drove to the community center on Wednesday after making arrangements for my sister to watch Lily. I entered a different room than the one where Ryan and his group had convened, my palms perspiring.

There were about eight women seated in a circle, and I could tell right once that they all had the same eerie expression I had been wearing for weeks.

I said, “I’m Julia,” when it was my turn to introduce myself. “Our daughter’s birth was traumatic, so my husband has been coming here. But I believe I too need assistance. I’ve been feeling quite confused and alone.

Sarah, a woman, gave me a kind grin. Both parents are impacted by birth trauma, Julia. You’re at the proper location.

I discovered during the course of the following hour that Ryan and I had been suffering from classic post-traumatic stress disorder. The avoidance habits, emotional distance, and nightmares are all examples of how the mind attempts to defend itself after seeing something frightening.

“The good news,” the leader of our group stated, “is that with proper support and communication, couples can work through this together and come out stronger.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful after that meeting. I had a strategy.

I waited until Ryan returned home from his support group meeting that evening. When he saw me awake in the living room with Lily in my arms, he appeared shocked.

“We need to talk,” I murmured softly.

His face turned white. “Julia, I—”

“I followed you,” I said. “I am aware of the therapy. I am aware of the trauma group.

With a discouraged expression, Ryan fell into the chair across from me. “I didn’t want you to be concerned. You’ve experienced enough.

Still holding our sleeping daughter, I got up and sat down next to him. “We’re meant to work together, Ryan. Together, we can recover from this.

That’s when he finally turned to face Lily.

He continued, “I was so scared of losing you both,” as he touched her hand.

Whispering, “You don’t have to be scared alone anymore,”

We’re both going to couples counseling two months later.

I know we’ll be alright when I see Ryan holding Lily every morning and looking at her with love rather than fear.

The finest dawns can occasionally come from the darkest nights.