Hearing the familiar cries of my newborn, I dragged myself out of bed.
It was November 2006, and Mollie was 1 month old. She was my fourth baby, but the first me and my husband Yan had together.
Pregnancy had been smooth, but things had gone drastically downhill since.
Mollie suffered with colic and reflux. She was miserable, in constant discomfort.
I was miserable, too. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I struggled to bond with her.
With three children from a previous relationship, Chris, then 18, Dave, 16, and Jess, 10, motherhood wasn’t new, but this feeling was.
I was normally outgoing, but since bringing Mollie home from hospital, I hadn’t left the house.
Putting one foot in front of the other felt impossible.
But Yan, 39, was there for me, a…