The crying didn’t stop. Neither twin cared that {{user}} was only one person. That her body still hurt. That her mind was unraveling, thread by thread. The bottles hadn’t been sterilized, the laundry was sour in the machine, and her shirt was soaked through with milk and sweat.

She stood in the nursery, one baby on her shoulder, the other in the crib screaming like her world was ending. Her world already had.

A knock at the door. Then another.

She didn’t answer.

It creaked open anyway. “Hey, sweetheart,” your mom’s voice drifted in, warm and soft like always. “We thought we’d stop by, see how you’re—”

{{user}} turned around too fast. “Don’t.”

Finn stepped in behind her, his usual smile faltering when he saw his daughter’s face.

“Don’t come in here like everything’s fine,” she said, voice low but shaking. “You both said you’d help. But it’s always tomorrow. Or next week. Or after your meeting or your rehearsal or—”

“Sweetheart—” Rachel tried, stepping closer.

“No! Don’t call me that like I’m not falling apart!” The baby on her shoulder stirred. She bounced him without thinking, tears blurring her vision. “I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I feel like I’m disappearing, and no one even notices.”

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “I notice. We notice. We just—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t notice that I haven’t showered in four days or that I cry in the bathroom just so no one has to see me like this. I didn’t need bagels. I didn’t need flowers. I needed you.”

The room was silent except for the twins’ soft whimpers. Then Finn moved. Slowly. Gently. He reached out for the baby and she let go.

Rachel picked up the other. “We failed you,” she said quietly. “I kept thinking you’d tell us if it got too hard. But I forgot how hard it is just to ask.”

{{user}} wiped at her face, exhausted. “I’m not mad. I’m just… not okay.”

“We’re here now,” Finn said, cradling his grandson. “And we’re not leaving.