My husband claimed I was talking in my sleep and relocated me and our infant to the guest suite so he could “stay productive.” I put it down to hormones and sheer fatigue. But one evening, I walked back down the corridor and caught the sound of voices coming from our master bedroom. The actual reason he wanted that space to himself left me reeling.
Six weeks back, I brought home the most exquisite and draining person I’ve ever known: our son, Kai. No one truly prepares you for what those first newborn weeks feel like from the inside. The happiness is profound, but so is the mental haze.
I was breastfeeding every couple of hours, surviving on fragmented sleep and lukewarm coffee. I took on every bit of it while my husband, Adrian, slept through the chaos because, as he reminded me constantly, he had “responsibilities at the office” the next day.
I told myself this phase was just temporary—that we were both simply trying to find our footing and that this was just the reality of early parenthood.
Then one night, three weeks into it, Adrian sat up and clicked on the bedside lamp.
“Maya,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re talking in your sleep. Full-blown conversations. And since you’re already awake when Kai starts crying, it just makes more sense for you to move into the guest room.”
I stared at him. “You’re asking me to sleep alone with the baby?”
“I can’t keep losing rest. I have to be able to function,” he said, using that tone that implies the discussion is already over. “I’m the only one bringing in an income right now. I can’t afford to be burned out just because you’re at home all day.”
“I’m at home with a six-week-old, Adrian. That isn’t exactly a day off.”
He just sighed and looked at the ceiling.
I picked up the bassinet and moved it myself, because what else are you supposed to do at 2 a.m. when you’re that exhausted and the person beside you has already checked out?
Over the next hour, diapers, wipes, bottles, and extra blankets were migrated to the guest room while Adrian turned off the light and drifted back to sleep.
Afterward, I sat on the edge of the spare bed, Kai finally settled, and stared at the wall for a long time. I didn’t even cry; I was far too drained for tears.
I want to be precise about what followed, because I’ve replayed it enough times to be sure of what I witnessed.
My husband, who had been acting like a zombie in the evenings for weeks, suddenly seemed revitalized. He started staying up past midnight and taking showers that lasted much longer than usual.
He began keeping his phone face-down on every surface, a new habit, and he started taking it into the bathroom with him, which was even stranger.
Moreover, he was strangely insistent that I stay in the guest room.
Whenever I suggested moving back in, Adrian always had a convenient excuse: Kai would sleep better in the quiet. The guest room was closer to the kitchen for those late-night feedings. He claimed to be a light sleeper and insisted I really did talk in my sleep.
I started to wonder if I was just being paranoid. Sleep deprivation has a way of making you doubt your own mind.
I even found myself apologizing to Adrian one morning for being “difficult,” and he accepted the apology without hesitation, which revealed more than any argument could have.
But a small, nagging feeling kept telling me the issue wasn’t my sleep-talking at all.
Three weeks after my relocation to the guest room, Kai had one of those rare, peaceful nights. He went down at 10 p.m., woke once at 1 a.m. for a feeding, and went back to sleep without a struggle.
I lay there in the silence for a second, feeling genuinely thankful, before realizing I’d left my phone charger plugged in right next to the master bedroom door.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the dark hallway.
That was when I heard low voices through the door, followed by a burst of laughter and the distinct sound of a drink being poured.
I froze.
A blue light pulsed from under the doorframe. The sharp, sweet aroma of lavender incense—something Adrian had never used before—drifted into the hall.
The voices were coming through a laptop speaker—several men talking over one another in that casual, loose way people do when they’ve been hanging out for a while.
I moved closer to the slightly ajar door and peered through the crack.
Adrian was propped up against the headboard with his laptop open, a glass of soda on the nightstand, and a stick of lavender incense burning on the dresser. On the screen were four or five other men in video boxes, all looking relaxed and mid-conversation.
Then Adrian lifted his glass toward the camera and said, “The smartest move I made was moving them out. I finally get some actual peace!”
The other men laughed and toasted back.
I stood in the shadows for a long moment, pressing my hand against the wall to steady myself. The charger could wait. I turned around, walked back to the guest room, and lay down next to my sleeping son.
I didn’t confront Adrian right then. I had a more effective plan.
At sunrise, after Adrian left for work, I bundled Kai into his carrier and drove to a nearby store. I went straight to the electronics department and bought a tiny camera, no larger than a smoke detector.
Once back home, I set it up in the bedroom Adrian had claimed as his own while Kai napped on my chest. I hid it on the bookshelf with a clear view of both the bed and the desk.
For the next seven nights, I recorded everything.
I captured Adrian talking to his online “dad group” about how he’d “finally reclaimed his territory.” I heard him tell someone named Brad that stay-at-home life was basically a vacation with a side of drama. I saw him raise another toast, saying, “I work all day. I deserve my peace. It’s as simple as that.”
I watched the footage every morning while Kai nursed, clipping the most revealing parts into a short video. I labeled the file and saved it.
Then, I contacted both of our families and told them it was time to officially celebrate Kai’s arrival. Dinner at our place that Saturday. Nothing fancy.
When I mentioned it to Adrian, he smiled and said it was a fantastic idea. He even thanked me for organizing it.
I let him enjoy the moment. It would be his last comfortable one for quite some time.
That Saturday, I prepared a pot roast. Adrian’s mother brought rolls, my mom brought a pie, and his brother and sister-in-law arrived with my sister. By the time we sat down, eight adults were crowded around the table, taking turns holding Kai and sharing stories about new parenthood.
Adrian was at his best—charming and relaxed. He poured the wine, made everyone laugh, and played the role of the tired but devoted new father perfectly.
After dessert, I stood up and said I wanted to show some photos from Kai’s first few weeks. I connected my phone to the television.
The room grew quiet, filled with that soft hush that usually accompanies newborn photos.
First came a sweet picture of Kai in the hospital, his eyes barely open. Then one in his first little outfit. And finally, a shot of him sleeping on my chest at 3 a.m., my face looking haggard with exhaustion, my hand protecting him like a shield.
Everyone smiled, a chorus of “awws” circling the table as each image appeared.
When the slideshow ended, I let the next clip play.
Adrian’s voice filled the room, sounding confident and relaxed, as he described moving his wife and newborn to the guest room as if it were a productivity hack.
His mother put her fork down.
The next clip played: Adrian on screen with his group, calling life with a new baby “her thing” and describing uninterrupted sleep as something he’d “rightfully reclaimed.”
Then came the clip of the toast, Adrian beaming as he said, “I work all day. I deserve my peace.”
The room went stone silent.
Adrian had turned the color of the wall behind him. He wouldn’t look at me, or anyone else. He sat perfectly still, hands flat on the table, staring at the screen.
His father cleared his throat. His mother looked at him with that specific look of maternal disappointment.
“Adrian??!” she said, her tone carrying more weight than any words could.
He finally looked at me. I met his gaze and remained silent.
“I was just tired,” Adrian confessed to the table, avoiding my eyes. “I know how it looks. I was just… the nights were rough, and I wasn’t handling it well. I thought if I could just get a week of solid sleep, I’d be a better…” He trailed off. “I lied about the sleep-talking. She doesn’t talk in her sleep. I just wanted her out of the room.”
No one moved to defend him. Some guests suddenly became very interested in their plates. Others looked at Adrian with the expression reserved for men who have said something truly shameful in front of their mothers.
My sister placed her hand over mine and sighed, clearly upset.
The evening wrapped up much earlier than expected. People hugged Kai on their way out and held onto me a little longer than usual.
Adrian’s mother kissed my cheek at the door, lingering for a moment before pulling back to look at me with knowing, tired eyes.
“Call me,” she whispered. “For anything.”
After the house was empty, I took Kai to the guest room for his final feeding. I was sitting in the chair by the window when Adrian appeared in the doorway.
He leaned against the frame and watched our son for a moment before looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was… I handled all of it the wrong way. The sleep, the group, all of it.”
“You could have just talked to me, Adrian. We were both exhausted. That was a reality for both of us. Instead, you decided your sleep was the only problem worth solving.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And you vented to a group of strangers before you ever said an honest word to me,” I added. “That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”
“I didn’t know how to bring it up without it turning into a fight.”
“So you lied instead. You made me feel like I was the one at fault.” I looked down at Kai sleeping in my arms. “He’s not background noise, Adrian. He’s our son.”
Adrian stood there a bit longer, then nodded slowly and walked back down the hall.
An hour later, Kai was asleep, and I was thirsty. I stepped out to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and stood at the counter for a minute in the quiet, dark house.
On my way back, I passed our old bedroom. The door was slightly open. No blue light. No voices. No lavender scent.
I stopped and looked through the gap.
Adrian was lying on his side, his phone facing up on the nightstand for the first time in weeks, and his laptop was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t faking it; he was truly asleep. The heavy, uncomplicated sleep of someone who had reached the end of their rope.
I watched him for a second, ready to walk away.
Then, from the darkness of the room, Adrian shifted and murmured something low and half-formed—the way people do when sleep pulls words out of them.
“I’m sorry, Maya. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry. I love you both. I’m sorry…”
I stood perfectly still in the doorway.
Then I pulled the door shut very gently until it clicked, walked back to the guest room, and set my water on the nightstand.
I checked on Kai, adjusted his blanket, and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark.
And for the first time in a month, I smiled.
My husband moved me out to find his peace. It’s funny how the truth eventually finds its own space and moves in, whether you’re ready for it or not.