The first months of motherhood were unimaginably difficult. I had stepped into it utterly unprepared, and there were moments when I felt ready to give up. You might wonder why.
When I left the hospital, my milk hadn't come in. Because I hadn't taken proper care of my nipples before breastfeeding, the skin cracked and tore, bleeding and leaving me in agony. Every time I looked at my daughter, my heart ached with tenderness—I couldn't bear not to feed her. But when I did, the pain was so sharp it felt as though something inside me was breaking. I would sit there, tears streaming down my face, silently enduring it.
After receiving treatment, things slowly improved. My milk finally came in, and just as I thought the worst was behind me, exhaustion took its toll—my body gave in again, and I suffered from severe pain. I couldn't sit, couldn't stand without hurting. It was then I realized: motherhood is something one must prepare for, in every possible way.
My little girl cried often. At 2 a.m., 4 a.m., 6 a.m.—like clockwork. Sleepless nights stretched on for three long months before things finally settled. That was when I truly understood—being a mother is far from easy.
My love took such good care of me. When the baby woke crying at night, he would pick her up, soothe her, feed her with a bottle—just so I could rest. Sometimes I would wake to the soft sound of him humming lullabies. It made my heart swell with affection. He adored our daughter, holding her close against his chest as she slept. They say daughters are especially attached to their fathers—and it was true. Every evening, he would rush home, eager to see her.
Our conversations revolved entirely around our little one."How did my two girls spend the day?" he would ask.And I would eagerly recount every little thing—her tiny expressions, her laughter, her babbling sounds. I never ran out of stories.
But when he got busy and didn't call or message, I would grow upset."Do you not love us anymore?" I would say when he came home. "Why didn't you call?"Even though I knew he was busy, I would still pick arguments. Staying home all day made me restless—perhaps even lonely. Maybe motherhood made me more emotional. I would get irritated over the smallest things, start fights, and when I couldn't win, I would break down in tears.
"I'll just take the baby and go back to my parents," I would threaten.
And he would always comfort me."I'm sorry, my love. I was just very busy. But I came straight home to you, didn't I?"Perhaps he was right.
My mother-in-law would come and help, giving me time to rest while she looked after the baby. My own parents visited often too. But each of them had their own way of seeing things.
My mother-in-law would take her son's side."You should make sure he always has warm meals ready," she would say. "He's working hard to provide for you both."She seemed to know about every argument we had, and her words made it feel like everything was my fault. At first, I believed it. But deep inside, I felt hurt.
When I brought it up to my husband, he would listen quietly. Sometimes he would say,"Please don't speak about my mother that way."
But when my parents came, they would say,"Why does your husband come home so late? Doesn't he think about his wife and child?"They would remind me to "keep an eye on him."
And slowly, doubt crept into my mind.Maybe they were right.
This became a major strain in our relationship. I came to realize—parents interfering in their children's marriage often does more harm than good. It led to constant arguments.
"Your family always talks badly about me," one of us would say."No, it's your family that does that," the other would reply.
We defended our own, and in doing so, hurt each other.
Time passed, and before we knew it, our daughter turned one. We wanted to make her birthday unforgettable, so we prepared everything beautifully. We invited family and relatives and celebrated grandly. Everyone brought gifts, showered her with kisses, and offered warm blessings. It was a joyful, memorable day.
But that evening, something changed.
Our daughter developed a fever and began to cry uncontrollably. She had been sick before, but never like this. Panic set in. We rushed around the room, not knowing what to do.
"Bring the thermometer!""Let's give her something to reduce the fever!""Where is it?""It's not here!""Don't cry, my baby…""Let's call a doctor!""What's the number?""Call 103!"
We rushed to the hospital.
The doctor said it was a throat infection causing the fever, and she had also developed diarrhea. We were admitted for treatment.
My husband was frantic."What do we do? Will she be okay? Should I bring food?"He ran around bringing diapers, meals, medicine—doing everything he could.
But I… I took my fear and frustration out on him.
"This is your fault," I snapped. "You insisted on throwing that big party—inviting all those people, letting them kiss her, giving her things. That's why she got sick. If we had just celebrated quietly, this wouldn't have happened!"
He said nothing.But I could see it—he blamed himself.
When a child falls ill, it shakes you to your core. I was overwhelmed, and I directed all my anger at him.
After a week in the hospital, our daughter recovered, and we returned home.
But something between us had changed.
He became distant. He would come home, play with our daughter, but speak little to me. If I tried to argue, he would quietly leave the room or turn up the television and watch sports instead. At first, I ignored it. But eventually, I realized I couldn't.
Whenever I tried to talk things through, we failed to understand each other. Somehow, it always ended up being my fault.
Only later did I understand this truth:
In married life, disagreements and conflicts are inevitable.But what truly matters is learning to communicate—to sit down, talk openly, and understand one another.