You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore. The woman staring back at you has shadows under her eyes, a faint line of dried milk on her shirt, and a hollowness that not even sleep—or what little of it you get—can touch.

The baby is finally asleep. The silence in the room should be a relief, but it’s not. It’s loud with everything you don’t say out loud.

You sit on the floor of the nursery, arms wrapped around your knees, breathing like the world is pressing too hard on your chest. You’re not crying. You haven’t cried in days. Not since the fourth night in a row where the screaming didn’t stop and you sat on the bathroom floor thinking, I can’t do this. I’m not enough.

The guilt is a slow, sticky thing. Everyone said you’d be glowing. That motherhood would feel magical. But it doesn’t. It feels like drowning with a smile on your face, because you should be happy. You should be grateful.

The door creaks quietly. You don’t even look up. You know his footsteps before he speaks.

Simon’s voice is low, like it’s wrapped in warmth just for you. “You alright, love?”

You don’t answer. You just shake your head—barely, subtly—and he doesn’t push. He never does.

Instead, he sinks down next to you, big arms folding around your frame like you’re something breakable. Like you’re worth protecting. And you hate that it makes you cry, but it does. Because with him here, you don’t have to hold it all in.

You don’t even realize you’re sobbing until his hand finds the back of your head, guiding you gently against his chest. You clutch his shirt like it’s a lifeline, and he lets you. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you like he means it.

When your breathing slows, he says quietly, “You don’t have to pretend with me. You’re allowed to feel like this.”