I look at the photos. The ones where we’re smiling, the three of us, me with my baby in my arms, him with his arm around me. The perfect family portrait, captured in a single frame, in a moment where everything is supposed to be right. We look so happy. So complete. The caption might say something about cherishing the small moments, being proud of him, or “making memories,” but in reality, the photo doesn’t tell the whole story. And that’s the thing about social media, isn’t it? It’s a curated mess of highlights, a collection of the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day.

The truth? The truth is I’m exhausted. I’m raising our baby, alone, most of the time. He’s home, yes, but he’s not here. He’s glued to his laptop, his phone, the video games with his friends, or whatever he’d rather be doing this time around. He’s physically in the house, but it feels like I’m just cohabitating with a man who used to be my partner. There’s no connection, no conversation beyond logistics. We pass each other in the hall like roommates, only the weight of it feels heavier because we’re supposed to be a family.

We haven’t talked about anything real in weeks. I couldn’t even tell you the last time we had an uninterrupted conversation. It’s all surface-level stuff, about the baby or bills or whatever it is that’s right in front of us, but there’s no us. The us that used to laugh about dumb things, stay up too late talking about our hopes and fears, making plans for the future. Now, it’s just survival mode. Me, holding it together for the baby, making sure he’s fed, clean, happy. And him, working late into the night, staying up too late playing video games, promising me that “soon” we’ll have time to talk, to reconnect. But soon never comes.

So we take the photo. We look perfect in it. He smiles at the camera, I smile at him, and the baby’s just happy to be held. But it’s a lie. It’s a quick snapshot of what we want the world to see: the perfect family, the perfect couple, the perfect life. But behind that photo, there’s a quiet tension that no filter can hide.

I want to tell the truth, but the truth feels too raw, too unpolished. Who wants to hear that I’m drowning in loneliness? That I’m doing this motherhood thing mostly on my own? That I’m questioning everything, even us? But we keep up the act because that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Paint the perfect picture, even when the edges are frayed, the colors are fading, and the background is full of mess.

And here’s the thing: I’ve stopped trying to fix it. I’ve stopped trying to reach out, to have the conversations, to beg for the connection that used to be there. Because the truth is, I’ve realized I can’t do it alone. And I’m tired. Tired of asking, tired of waiting, tired of being the only one to carry the weight of what this relationship is supposed to be. So I’ve let go. I’ve given up on trying to make him understand, trying to make us better. I’m just here, doing my part, trying to make it through each day without completely losing myself. Maybe I should be angry about it, but mostly, I just feel numb.

So yeah, I’ll post the picture, and you’ll think everything’s fine. Maybe I’ll even throw in a smile, and a caption about how happy I am, how proud I am of him, but don’t be fooled. We’re not perfect. We’re just people, trying to figure out how to stay afloat when everything around us is sinking. And right now, I don’t know if there’s a lifeboat left for us. But I’m done swimming against the tide.