My husband appeared on the baby monitor every night at 2 a.m. carrying a mysterious paper bag—when I finally watched him open it, I gasped

to invading his privacy, I opened directly to the latest entry.

“Today I was afraid I couldn’t do this,” it read.

“Last night your mom cried because the yellow swaddle wouldn’t fold, and I told her it didn’t matter, and then I came in here and cried too because I couldn’t fix anything. It is the night I ate two candy bars and cold fries at two in the continue reading …