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It’s been months of struggle, cracked, aching nipples and just—a baby that is never satisfied.

Joke aside, Tate is right. Owen is a monster. Everyone thinks he’s nine months or older. He’s big for a new baby—with a biiiig appetite to match.

Owen starts to fuss in his swing, hungry again. I sigh a defeated sigh, turning back to the counter and the formula that feels like the ultimate mom-fail. I hate feeling this, even though I know somewhere in the back of my muddled-with-hormones brain, that I’m doing the right thing.

I’m giving my child what he needs.

I make the bottle—then I hand it to Tate because right now I just can’t.

He takes it, because he’s the best, most patient man I ever could have asked to do this with. Then I run myself a hot shower and cry my heart and soul out for the next half hour.

Owen catches sight of me when I pull my emotions together enough to re-enter the living room. A big, gummy baby smile that melts all the hard parts of me spreads his face as his little legs kick happily, a happy baby squeal meeting my ears.

He’s different already. Satisfied in a way that I’ve never been able to satisfy him with my milk alone.

It hurts a little, but I’m relieved to see him happy. Maybe it really was a good decision, even though I’d been enraged when Tate came home with the formula.

I’d felt so betrayed…

I lift Owen into my arms, my eyes meeting Tate’s. I whisper a shaky, “Thank you,” as he slips his phone into his pocket.

“Anything for you.” Tate stands from where he’d been sitting with Owen on the floor. “Anything for him.”

“I know.”

Tate bends to press his lips to mine, and I let myself get lost in his kiss.

We do this a lot. Tate kisses me a lot—but we still haven’t done more than that.

I don’t know why. I was given the green light for sex ages ago—and Tate was in the room with me when the doctor gave the free and clear. Still, he made no move. He continues to make no move.

I don’t understand.

Maybe he’s just not attracted to me anymore…

My stomach flips at the thought, and I hold Owen a little tighter.

Instead of asking my fiancé about why we aren’t yet intimate and discussing my hurt feelings, like I should do, I ask, “Who were you texting?”

“When?”

“When I first came into the room, you were texting someone.”

“Oh, my mom. She demands regular Owen updates.”

“Ah.” I nod, but I can’t quite ignore the little voice that says he’s lying. “Can I see the photo?”

Tate smiles as he tugs his phone from his pocket. He taps into his photos, and I see an entire screen of our son.

He points at a photo of Owen on his belly, lifting his head with a look of pure concentration on his face. “Look how strong he is.”

“He’s so strong.”

“I can’t wait for him to crawl.”

I gasp. “Shut your mouth!” I snuggle Owen, glaring at Tate over his little head as Tate laughs. “I love the potato stage.”

“It’s a bit boring.”