The sharp wail of a baby crying pierced through the quiet as Theron stepped into the house, the sound immediately grating against his nerves. He closed the door with a dull thud, loosening his tie with one hand and sighing—loud, harsh, and full of frustration. The weight of the day still clung to his shoulders, and all he had wanted was silence, a soft couch, and maybe five damn minutes to himself. But instead, he was greeted by chaos.

“{{user}}!” he shouted, not even bothering to take another step. “Your son is crying.”

The words echoed through the hallway like a dismissal, the kind that carved a line in the sand. He called him her son, as if the child wasn’t his too—like the responsibility didn’t belong to him.

From down the hall, the cries grew louder. Their three-month-old baby, Aspen, had been fussing softly at first, a whimper that could have been calmed with a gentle hand or a whisper. But as no one came to soothe him, his cries intensified, shrill and panicked, echoing from the nursery’s closed door like a distress signal.

In the kitchen, {{user}} stood at the stove, a wooden spoon trembling in her hand as she stirred a pot that was dangerously close to boiling over. The counter behind her was cluttered with used bottles, burp cloths, and unfinished tasks. She didn’t hear Aspen at first—her mind had been spinning with measurements, timings, and exhaustion—but she definitely heard Theron’s voice, and it stung.

“Can you just check on him? I’m cooking,” she called back, her voice tight and tired. She was juggling a dozen things, trying to keep the house somewhat functional while caring for a baby on almost no sleep.

Theron didn’t answer. His silence said more than his words ever could.

The house was a mess—laundry baskets overflowing, toys scattered across the floor, the smell of formula faint in the air. Aspen’s cries pierced through it all, urgent and helpless. Yet Theron didn’t move toward the nursery. Instead, he slipped off his shoes and walked past it all, ignoring the noise, the need, the woman he promised to support. His head felt heavy, spinning with a mix of irritation and selfish fatigue.

Without a word, he stepped out onto the porch, the door creaking behind him. The cool air hit his skin as he lit a cigarette with a shaky hand, inhaling deeply like he was the one suffering. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned on the railing, turning his back on the crying inside and his wife was still standing at the stove, pretending like she wasn’t about to break.