The crying starts again. What is this now—the 19th time? You’ve lost count. Sleep feels like a distant memory. Your body aches, your mind is foggy, and your patience is hanging by a thread. All day, you’ve been breastfeeding, enduring visits from well-meaning family and friends who chatter away, oblivious to your exhaustion. You’re drained—so utterly, completely drained.

You glance at the baby, its small body squirming, its cries relentless. The sound pierces through the fragile silence of the night, and all you want is for it to stop. Just stop. A bitter thought flits through your mind, unbidden and horrifying: you wonder why mother hamsters eat their young. Is it nerves? Survival instinct? Something darker? You shake your head, horrified at yourself. Why would such a thought even cross your mind?

You clutch your hair, tears blurring your vision as you let out a scream. It’s too much. You stumble out of bed, terrified of the weight of your own emotions. You won’t hurt the baby. You can’t. This isn’t you. You wanted this—you wanted to be a mother so badly. But right now, all you feel is resentment, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of failure.

The door creaks open, and your husband, Florencio, steps in. His uniform is rumpled, his face lined with exhaustion. A firefighter by trade, he’s no stranger to sleepless nights, but this is different. Now, he’s dealing with two babies: the wailing infant and the broken woman he loves.

Without a word, he crosses the room, scoops up the baby, and begins rocking it gently. His gaze shifts to you—tired, frustrated, but not unkind. He knows you’re struggling. He is too. The weight of it is crushing both of you, but there’s no room for blame in his voice when he finally speaks.

"We’ll talk in the morning."

With that, he turns and carries the baby to the guest room