As I placed my infant daughter in her crib, I could hear the sound of water rushing through the plumbing.

I smiled. Celia, my wife, was finally getting that shower she'd needed, wanted, for three days. Caring for a small baby was time-consuming, of that there was no doubt. She was suffering a little post-partum depression; a good hot bath should ease some of that tension, I hoped.

Soon enough, the water stopped running. I waited a couple more minutes, and then wandered into the bedroom. My wife was sitting there, on the edge of the bed; her hair was tied up in one towel, while she was perched on the other, trying to reach places which only a year before had been in close proximity, now unfamiliarly difficult to reach.

She looked at me dolefully, her eyes red from more, I suspected, than simply soap and water.

I grabbed another towel and sat behind her to dry her back. As I patted her down, I felt her shaking. She was sobbing.

I put my hands on her shoulders and said softly, "Hey, what's all this?"

She shook me off. "You can't possibly love me now," she moaned.

I got off the bed and knelt before her, taking her chin in my hand and tilting her head to look at me. "Of course I love you," I said; it sounded lame, but there it was.

She grabbed the towel and covered her breasts. "I'm fat and ugly!" she wailed.

I tried to peel the towel away; she was having none of it. "You never hid the bosoms from me before," I chided gently. "They're still my breast friends."

"They're ugly and stretchy and saggy!" she snapped. "Plus they leak all the time!"

I was silent for a moment, then sat on the bed beside and slightly behind her. I turned her torso toward me, forcing her to lift her right knee onto the bed.