Sex after children

Sex after children

Kristin Evans

© Kristin Evans, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0244-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Kristin Evans Sex after children

Chapter 1: The Silence After the Storm

The air in the bedroom was warm and sweet, smelling of baby powder and milk. Sunbeams pierced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the thick, cozy heaviness. They swirled like tiny fairies, lighting the edge of the cradle where Sofia slept.

Anna stood on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, watching her daughter. In these moments, the world shrank to the size of this room, to the steady, serene breathing of the infant, and an immense, all-consuming flower of love bloomed in her chest. It felt like this was it: real, the only possible happiness. Perfect and fragile, like a bird-of-paradise egg.

Six weeks. Just six weeks ago, her life had split into “before” and “after,” and a new, dazzling light had poured through the crack. A light named Sofia.

“Asleep?” Alex’s quiet, caring voice sounded right by her ear. He had approached soundlessly, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. His breath tickled her hair, and his familiar, beloved scent – a light cologne mixed with the clean smell of his cotton shirt – sent a wave of nostalgic tenderness through her. This was how he always was – strong, reliable, hers.

“Asleep,” Anna whispered, afraid to break the silence. She closed her eyes, dissolving into the moment: his embrace, their sleeping daughter, the sunlight. An idyll. A picture from a glossy motherhood magazine. “Happy young family.”

They stood like that for several minutes, merged into one, listening to the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece – a gift from her mother, old-fashioned and cozy. Alex kissed her temple; his lips were warm and soft.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and his voice held reverence. “Absolutely beautiful. And so are you.”

His hand slid from her waist a little lower, his palm resting on her stomach, still soft and unfamiliar to her after childbirth. The touch was gentle, loving, but Anna involuntarily tensed. Her body, still recovering from the colossal effort and upheaval, responded not with a thrill but with a vague, barely perceptible anxiety. It seemed to say: “I’m not mine yet. I belong to her. I need rest.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly, covering his hand with hers, trying to mask her reaction as returned affection.

Alex seemed not to notice anything. He looked at their sleeping daughter once more and gently turned Anna to face him.

“Shall we go to the living room? I poured you some tea. Chamomile. You said it helps.”

She nodded, allowing him to lead her by the hand like a blind person. The living room was in the cozy chaos of new motherhood: a stack of clean folded diapers lay on the sofa, her huge mug with a leaky bottom stood on the coffee table, next to a discarded giraffe rattle. Alex sat her down on the sofa, tucked a blanket around her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll, and handed her the cup. Steam tickled her nose; it smelled of chamomile and honey.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting down next to her and looking at her intently. His eyes, so clear and beloved, showed only concern.

“Tired,” Anna admitted honestly, taking a sip of the hot tea. “She didn’t sleep well today. Was fussy.”

“I know. I heard. You’re a heroine. The best mom in the world.”

He was saying the right words, the very ones she was supposed to want to hear. “Best mom.” But somehow, that phrase echoed inside her with a strange emptiness. She was Anya. Just Anya. Alex’s wife. And now – Sofia’s mom. But where was that Anna who used to laugh uproariously, race out of town with him on his motorcycle, and fall asleep in his arms after a passionate, long night? That woman whose body was an instrument of pleasure, not a milk factory and a rocking apparatus?

She pushed these thoughts away, feeling ungrateful and almost like a traitor. Of course, she was happy. It was just fatigue. Hormones. It happens to everyone.

“Thank you,” she said again, already automatically. “How was work? That project, with the kinetic sculptures for the park, how’s it going?”

She saw the familiar excitement flare in his eyes. He loved his work as an architect and could talk about it for hours. And Anna used to love listening, asking questions, getting inspired by his ideas. Now, she caught herself only following the intonation of his voice, the movement of his lips, while the actual words reached her as if through cotton wool. Her brain was too busy compiling an endless to-do list: sterilize the bottles, check the diapers, don’t forget to make a pediatrician appointment…

"…and the municipal council, can you believe it, is dragging its feet with approval again!” he finished, sighing. Then he smiled. “But it doesn’t matter. Right now, only you and she matter.”

He hugged her, pulling her close. Anna pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. She used to fall asleep to that rhythm. Now it was the most reliable and beloved sound in the world.

But today, something was off.

His hand lay on her shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the skin near her collarbone. The movement was affectionate, familiar. But instead of responding warmth, Anna felt a growing heaviness. Awkwardness. His touch, which had always been both longed-for and comforting and exciting, now demanded something from her. Some kind of response. Energy she didn’t have. An emotion she couldn’t dredge up from the depleted reserves of her soul.

She froze, trying to breathe evenly, pretending to be relaxed. Inside, everything was clenching into a knot of foreboding.

Alex leaned in and kissed her neck, just below her earlobe. His kiss was warm, moist, full of tenderness and a hint of something more. It held the memory of a thousand other such kisses that had ended in laughter, tangled sheets, and blissful exhaustion.

Anna’s body responded instantly and unambiguously. Not with a shiver, not with a wave of desire. With a cold, clammy wave of panic. Everything inside contracted, shriveled, trying to become smaller, less noticeable. Thoughts raced: “No. Not now. I can’t. I’m tired. Everything hurts. He’s waiting. He wants me. And I… I don’t want to. I don’t want anything except sleep. I can’t give him this. Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?”

She didn’t push him away. She couldn’t. That would be too cruel, too direct a rejection. Instead, she did what had become her automatic defense over the past few weeks. She feigned an exaggerated, sweet yawn and snuggled closer to him, as if seeking comfort, not passion.

“Oh, sorry,” she whispered, pretending her eyes were closing on their own. “I think I’m fading. This chamomile really knocks me out.”

She felt his body freeze for a moment. The hand on her shoulder stopped moving. He pulled back just a centimeter, but the distance felt like an abyss. He looked at her, and in his eyes, she saw a flash of disappointment, immediately carefully hidden behind a mask of understanding.

“Of course, forgive me, silly,” he said, and his voice sounded slightly huskier than usual. He stroked her hair, now paternally, friendly. “Go to sleep, sunshine. I’ll stay up a bit longer, get some work done.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not a bit. Sleep.”

He kissed her forehead. A long, tender, final kiss. A kiss that put a period. Not on their love. On the possibility of anything else happening that evening.

Anna rose from the sofa, feeling both guilty and incredibly relieved. She had dodged a storm she herself had invited. She had avoided a test for which she was completely unprepared.

“Goodnight, Alex.”

“Goodnight, Anechka. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She quickly walked to the bedroom, to Sofia. The girl was snoring softly in her sleep, her tiny fists clenched. Anna sat in the nursing chair next to the cradle, not turning on the light, and just watched her. It was safe here. Everything was simple and clear. Love. Feed. Protect. Ask for nothing in return but a smile.

Half an hour later, she heard Alex carefully enter the bedroom, go to the bathroom, and wash up. Then he lay down on his side of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sighed heavily, once, and fell still.

Anna waited. Waited for his breathing to become even and deep. Only then did she dare get up and lie down beside him. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, where reflections from streetlights played. A full meter of empty space lay between them. They used to fall asleep with their legs and arms entwined. Now each was on their own island.

She turned on her side, her back to him, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. A lump formed in her throat. Betraying tears burned her eyelids. She curled up in the darkness, trying to make herself very, very small, hoping this gnawing guilt wouldn’t notice her and devour her alive.

He waited, hammered in her temples. He wanted you. And you… you deceived him. You pretended to be asleep. You rejected him. You’re a bad wife.

And then, through the fatigue and self-flagellation, broke another, terrifyingly honest thought that made her feel even colder:

But I wasn’t pretending. My body… it genuinely doesn’t want him. It doesn’t want anything. It just wants to be left alone.

And that simple, physiological, unbearably bitter fact hung in the sweet, milky air of the room where her child and her husband slept. The first crack. Shallow, almost invisible. But Anna already felt the cold wind of future storms creeping through it straight to her heart.

She closed her eyes and waited for morning.

Chapter 2: The First Crack

The weeks flowed slowly and quickly at the same time, merging into a series of endless feedings, diaper changes, and short, anxious breaks for sleep. Each day was like the last, measured not by hours but by the rhythm of their daughter’s life. Anna immersed herself in this rhythm headlong, letting it lull her anxiety and blur the lines between “once upon a time” and “now.”

Alex tried to help. He got up at night to bring Sofia to her for feeding, washed bottles, walked with the stroller in the park, proudly returning the smiles of random passersby. He was the perfect father. The kind she read about in books and that her girlfriends envied. And Anna caught herself watching him from the side with almost maternal tenderness and pride. “What a great guy I have.” But it was a mother’s pride, not a wife’s. The wife in her was silent, hiding somewhere deep under layers of fatigue and new, unfamiliar roles.

One evening, a rare opportunity arose. Sofia, fed and lulled to sleep, drifted into a deep, predictable slumber that, by all the laws of the genre, should last at least a couple of hours. An unusual silence fell over the apartment. Even the old clock on the mantel seemed to have stopped its steady ticking to avoid disturbing the fragile peace.

Alex caught her eye. He was sitting opposite her on the sofa, having set aside his tablet with work blueprints.

“Finally,” he exhaled with a smile that held weariness, relief, and something else. Something that made Anna’s heart lurch. “Seems we have a little time just for us.”

“Yes,” she agreed, trying to infuse her voice with the same joy. “A whole two hours, if we’re lucky.”

“What shall we do?” His gaze swept over her, warm, interested. It was the way he used to look at her before the baby was born, and it usually promised something very pleasant.

Anna felt goosebumps run down her spine. Not from anticipation. From fear.

“I don’t know. Maybe watch a movie? Or just talk?”

“Movie sounds great,” he agreed easily but didn’t move. He looked at her, and impatience swirled in his eyes, long-restrained and now ready to spill out. “But first, I just want to sit with you. Like this. Without anything else.”

He moved to sit next to her, and the sofa dipped. His thigh touched hers. That simple touch sent a dry, cold lightning bolt through Anna’s body. She froze like a rabbit in headlights.

Alex put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She let her head fall onto his chest, again pretending to seek comfort, not passion. She inhaled his scent, trying to ignite even a spark of that old, wild feeling that used to flare up between them at the slightest breath. But her body was silent. Deaf and mute as a stone.

“I’ve missed you so much, Anechka,” he whispered, and his lips touched her temple. “I think I’ve forgotten what your skin smells like right here, on your neck.”

His fingers carefully moved a strand of hair aside, and he pressed his lips to that spot he knew so well. His kiss was hot, moist, insistent. There was nothing rough about it, only long waiting and longing. But Anna flinched as if struck. Her nervous system, worn out by sleep deprivation and constant anxiety, reacted to the caress as an invasion.

He felt her tension.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, not letting her go.

“Nothing. It’s fine,” she tried to relax, take a deep breath, but her muscles wouldn’t obey.

“Does it feel unpleasant?” A note of confusion, almost hurt, sounded in his voice.

“No! No, of course not,” she babbled, trying to drown out the panic. “It’s just… I’m all wrapped up in tasks, in worries. My head is spinning. It’s hard to switch gears.”

He pulled back to look at her face. His eyes searched for the truth in hers.

“I understand. But let’s try. Let’s just forget about everything in the world. At least for a little while.”

His hand slid under her loose, unfashionable home T-shirt – the one in which she felt protected and invisible. His palm, warm and broad, rested on her bare back. Once, his touch had made her skin burn. Now she only felt a foreign, overly heavy hand. A hand that demanded a response from her that she didn’t have.

He leaned in to kiss her on the lips. A real, long, deep kiss. The kiss of a husband in love who wants his wife.

And then something in Anna snapped. Her body reacted before her mind did. She jerked her head away sharply, almost convulsively. His lips only brushed her cheek.

A tomblike silence hung in the room. Even outside the window, all sounds seemed to have died down. Alex froze. He didn’t pull his hand back, but it lay motionless and heavy on her back. Anna watched as slowly, as if in slow motion, the expression on his face changed. The tenderness and impatience in his eyes faded, replaced first by complete bewilderment, then by a heart-wrenching, offensive clarity.

He removed his hand. Slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence even more.

“Anna?” he said quietly, and that one word held a whole universe of questions, pain, and misunderstood despair.

She didn’t look at him. She stared into the space in front of her, at the wall where their old photograph hung – they were laughing, tanned, with wind in their hair, against a sea backdrop. That Anna looked back at her with challenge and surprise: “What happened to you?”

“Sorry,” she breathed out, and her voice sounded hoarse and alien. “I… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t?” he repeated, and now his voice held notes of something hard, cold. Not anger yet. More like icy astonishment. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? Am I repulsive to you?”

The question hit like a whip crack. Direct, crude, ripped from the depths of his male pride.

“No!” she exclaimed, finally turning to him. She saw his face – younger-looking from pain, with tightly pressed lips and eyes swirling with real despair. “Alex, no, never! How can you think that?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” His voice rose to a shout, and he immediately checked himself, throwing a glance toward the bedroom door. He lowered his voice to a whisper, but that made his words even sharper, more venomous. “I try to touch my wife, and she recoils from me like I’m a leper! You haven’t let me kiss you for weeks! You sleep turned toward the wall, and you flinch when I just put my hand on you! What should I think, Anna? Tell me!”

She looked at him, and the tears finally burst forth uncontrollably, bitter and unrestrained. They streamed down her cheeks and dripped onto her hands, clenched into fists.

“I don’t know…” she sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I just can’t! My body… it’s not mine! It doesn’t want to! It’s tired! It belongs to her all the time! I feel like if you touch me, I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces because inside I’m just one big, open wound!”

She spoke incoherently, almost hysterically, spitting out words that had been accumulating for weeks, words that had no name or explanation. She waited for him to understand. To hug her. To say: “It’s okay, I’m with you, we’ll get through this together.”

But Alex sat back against the sofa cushions, looking at her with an uncomprehending, almost alien gaze. Her words, her tears, didn’t reach him. They shattered against his own pain, his wounded male ego, his need for a simple, physical confirmation that he was still loved and desired.

“You talk as if I’m a rapist,” he said finally, his voice flat and empty. “As if my touch defiles you.”

“No!” she cried out, almost shouting, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, afraid to wake their daughter. “No, Alex, that’s not it… it’s…”

She didn’t know how to explain. How to describe this all-consuming, physiological apathy? This absence not of love for him, but of desire itself? This feeling that all her resources, all her energy, all her flesh and nerves were working only for one person – their child. And for him, for her husband, there was simply nothing left. Not a drop.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered, giving up. It was the only thing he could understand. “I’m so very tired.”

He silently looked at her for a few more seconds. Then slowly rose from the sofa. He suddenly looked aged and very distant.

“Alright,” he said without emotion. “I get it. Go to bed, Anna. You’re tired.”

He turned and left the living room. She heard him go to the kitchen, open the fridge, pour himself some water. Then his footsteps faded in the hallway.

Anna sat hunched over, sobbing into a pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her own weeping. She felt like the most terrible woman in the world. A bad wife. A selfish person. He had offered her love, intimacy, and she had thrown his gift back in his face, smearing it with dirt.

Maybe half an hour passed. She calmed down, her tears dried, leaving only heaviness and emptiness behind. She trudged to the bedroom. Sofia was asleep. Alex lay on his side of the bed, turned toward the wall. He wasn’t moving, but by the tension in his back, she knew he wasn’t asleep.

She carefully lay down on her edge, trying not to touch him. A whole universe of silence, pain, and unspoken grievances lay between them. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, listening to her own heartbeat. It beat irregularly, anxiously, as if warning of an approaching storm.

He didn’t say “goodnight” to her. For the first time in all their years of marriage.

Anna turned on her side, her back to his back, and drew her knees up to her stomach, assuming the fetal position. She felt so alone in that silence that it seemed a little more – and she would disappear, dissolve into it without a trace.

The crack between them was no longer a thin thread. It was a real chasm. And she, Anna, had just dug it even deeper herself. She didn’t know if they had a bridge to cross it. Or if she had the strength to build one.

Chapter 3: A Stranger in the Mirror

The silence after that night was of the worst kind – thick, viscous, unhealthy. It wasn’t peaceful; it was conspiratorial, full of unspoken reproaches and stifled sighs. They moved around the apartment like two ghosts tracing their eternal circles, carefully avoiding collisions. Alex left for work earlier, came home later. Anna plunged into motherhood with even greater, almost frantic zeal, as if it were the only harbor where she wouldn’t face judgment or silent questions.

A week passed. One morning, after putting Sofia down for her first nap, Anna trudged into the bathroom. The air there was humid and steamy from Alex’s recent shower; it smelled of his shower gel – fresh, piney, masculine. Mechanically, she picked up her toothbrush, and her gaze fell on the large mirror above the sink, fogged with steam.

She wiped her palm across the cold, wet surface, clearing a view. And froze.

A stranger was staring back at her from the mirror.

It was her – the same eye shape, the same lips, the same oval face. But it all seemed crumpled, remade by an invisible and not very skilled tailor. Her face was gaunt, with purple, almost bluish shadows under her eyes. Her skin, which had always glowed with health, seemed dull and translucent. Her hair, once her pride – thick, shiny, smelling of expensive shampoo – was tied in a messy bun with stray strands sticking out. It looked lifeless and lusterless.

But the worst part was her body. She hadn’t looked at herself full-length for weeks, instinctively avoiding mirrors, getting dressed in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. Now, against her will, she saw everything.

Her shoulders were hunched under the weight of an invisible burden. Her breasts, enlarged from breastfeeding, hung heavy and unattractive. Her stomach… she slowly ran a hand over its soft, flabby roll that refused to go away. White, pearlescent stretch marks, like scars from some battle, radiated from her navel. They were on her hips, on her breasts. A map of a new, foreign territory she didn’t recognize as her own.

This body wasn’t bad. It was strong. It had carried and birthed a person. It was now feeding that person. It was a miracle, if you thought about it rationally. But in that moment, looking into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror, Anna felt neither strength nor wonder. She felt only alienation and a quiet, persistent horror.

Where had that woman gone? The one with the firm, toned body that had happily sunbathed on the beach, worn fitted dresses, and responded with pleasure to her husband’s caresses? The one who laughed, turning her face to the sun, not thinking about dark circles? The one whose sexuality had been as natural a part of her as breathing?

She was dead. Wiped away, dissolved in sleepless nights, endless feedings, anxieties, milk, and baby powder. Only this remained – tired, sagging, alien. A woman whose body belonged not to her, but to a function. The function of motherhood.

She pinched a fold of skin on her stomach, trying to suck it in, make it like before. Useless. Her skin, like a traitor, immediately returned to place, soft and obedient, a reminder that there was no going back.

Tears rose in her throat, bitter and helpless. She hated herself at that moment. Hated herself for these thoughts, for this ingratitude, for this disgust with herself. Hadn’t it performed a miracle? Hadn’t it given her Sofia? But her mind refused to listen to reason. Emotions were stronger. The pain of losing herself was stronger.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at that reflection any longer. Her gaze fell on the shelf where her things lay in a basket – combs, hair clips, makeup. Makeup… powder, mascara, lipsticks. It all seemed like artifacts from another life now, museum exhibits. What did she need them for? To paint this haggard face? To try and revive a gaze that held only fatigue and emptiness?

She reached for a bottle of foundation, as if grasping for a lifeline, a piece of her past self. The bottle slipped from her trembling fingers and fell onto the tiled floor. The cap flew off, and a thick beige mass spread in a shapeless blotch across the clean, shiny tiles.

That was the last straw. Some absurd, stupid little thing that overflowed the cup of her patience. Anna didn’t wipe it up. She just sank into a squat in the middle of the bathroom, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began to cry quietly, hopelessly. She cried for herself. For the Anna she had lost. For her body, which had become public property – doctors and nurses could examine it, it fed the child, it demanded care, but not for her sake, for the sake of performing its duties. It had ceased to be a source of pleasure and had become a tool for service.