When my wife was seven months pregnant, she lost everything: her grace, her beauty, the air that made her cheeks plump, and later, her womanhood. She looked like a photo I saw in a magazine of emaciated people dying from hunger. I’m not exaggerating. The only thing that stayed the same was her bulging belly.

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I couldn’t sleep at night because I was scared I would lose her while asleep. When she lay in one position for too long without turning, I would put a finger under her nose to see if she was breathing. She said she was fine, but she was insufferable.

She was worse when she gave birth. She had seizures; she walked trembling. She got tired easily, even when seated. I had to hold her to help her walk properly. Her mom came around, but I never left her side. While her mom took care of the baby, I took care of her—feeding her and helping her take her medicine. One night, she was in so much pain she couldn’t sleep. She was crying. I told her, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. No more babies.”

Slowly, we nursed her back to health. Every new day brought new strength. She started walking by herself. She could carry the baby without getting tired. Her body started producing milk because she could eat properly. She wasn’t scared to look into the mirror again. She’d look at herself and say, “My cheeks are coming back” or “My eyes are alive again.”

Three years later, she has become the woman I married. She would dress up and ask me, “How do I look?” I would respond, “You’re looking great.” Recently, the question has changed. She would ask me, “Am I looking fat?”

She’s actually fat. Nothing fits. She doesn’t wear anything without complaining about how tight it is. I don’t tell her she’s fat because I’ve seen her at her worst before. I tell her, “You’re looking grateful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she would ask.
She looks grateful because I’m grateful she could make it back again.

The problem now is she wants another child. “This one is old,” she says. “We need a new one. Maybe after that, we can stop.”

I don’t want to go through what I went through again. The sleepless nights, the emotional torture, the fear of losing her. No, I don’t want to. But she’s sulking. It makes me wonder: how much pain can a woman bear? It looks like she’s forgotten everything. She even laughs about it as if it’s normal. She tells me, “It won’t happen again. The first is mostly like that.”

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I don’t want a second child, even if doctors confirm to me that she would be alright. At least we have one. The world knows we are capable. They can’t laugh at us or speak ill behind our backs. Let’s carry on with what we have, but she says no.

How do I convince her? Currently, intimacy is few and far between because I’m being careful. But I know women—they usually get what they want. So I’m asking: how do I get her to understand me?

—Josh

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