I thought pregnancy would be the hardest thing I ever had to survive. I never imagined the loneliest part would begin before my daughter was even born.

Looking back now, I wish I had understood much sooner that something inside my marriage had gone terribly wrong.

The clock on the nightstand glowed 2:47 a.m. I had not slept longer than twenty minutes at a time. My back ached constantly, like someone had shoved a brick beneath my spine, and my baby kept kicking hard beneath my ribs.

I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, and my body no longer felt like it belonged to me.

I rolled to my left side, then my right. I sat up, lay back down, adjusted my pregnancy pillow, and got up to use the bathroom for what felt like the hundredth time. Our apartment was small, one bedroom on the third floor, the kind of place where even quiet footsteps seemed too loud.Beside me, my husband Ryan let out a dramatic sigh and pulled a pillow over his head.

I remembered the early months, when he rubbed my feet, brought me ginger tea, and laughed that our baby was already bossing us around. That version of him felt like someone I had only imagined.

Since my maternity leave began, Ryan had changed. He complained about the electric bill, my food cravings, my snack wrappers, and most of all, the way I moved around at night.On the fourth night, he knocked on the bedroom door, red-eyed and ashamed, and finally apologized.

He agreed to counseling. Dana booked the first session herself.

Six weeks later, I gave birth to a healthy baby girl, with my mother-in-law holding my hand.

After that, I never apologized for taking up space again.

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