Brit and I have been together for 18 years. Married for 10. We’ve done a lot of hard things together. Fertility treatments. IVF. Building a business. Raising kids. Losing people we love. Moving through seasons that tested us in ways we didn’t see coming. And then postpartum hits and somehow it finds a new way to be hard. Here’s the thing nobody talks about enough: when you’re postpartum, you become someone’s everything. The babies need your body, your warmth, your smell, your voice, your presence — constantly. Your body is not yours. It belongs to whoever is crying. By the time the day ends, I have nothing left that wants to be touched. Not held. Not looked at in a certain way. Not reached for. Just — not touched. And I look at this woman I have loved for eighteen years, who I chose, who I keep choosing, who is standing right there, I have to tell her that the version of me who wants to be her partner in that way is temporarily out of service. We have been parents so much longer...