Her sweet daughter, Emma had been impossible the night before. Teething? Overtired? Just as fed up with this tiny apartment and its endless loop of crying, feeding, rocking, cleaning? Diana didn’t know. She’d tried everything—blankets, breast-feeding, singing under her breath even though her voice cracked with exhaustion. Nothing worked. Nothing ever seemed to work anymore.

Until she knocked next door.

It was humiliating—her knuckles brushing the wood, hair frizzy and damp from tears and steam, pajamas still marked with formula and shame. But the neighbor had answered. Kindly and groggily. No questions, no judgment. Just stepped inside, knelt on the carpet with Emma, and in fifteen minutes, the wailing stopped.

Now, standing in the doorway with grocery bags clutched to her chest, Diana blinked into the soft golden glow of her apartment, heart briefly caught in her throat.

The chaos was... gone.

The dishes were done. Toys were sorted into neat baskets. Emma sat cross-legged on the living room rug, babbling with that bright, squeaky laugh Diana hadn’t heard in weeks—months?—her small hands passing colorful blocks toward the neighbor, who mirrored her enthusiasm with gentle focus. Emma was so animated, so alive in a way she rarely was. Like she felt safe.

And in the kitchen, a pot on the stove murmured a quiet promise. Chicken soup. It smelled so good. Like home.

Diana didn’t move. For a second, the bags in her arms felt too heavy. Not from weight—but from what the moment did to her. Something was cracking open inside her, something tentative and fragile.

This wasn’t a partner. Not a spouse. Not a live-in helper. This was a near stranger, once barely more than an occasional hello in the hallway. And yet, here they were—bringing peace to her baby, calm to her home, and without a word, making space for Diana to breathe.

She stood there a moment longer, eyes stinging not from exhaustion, but from the impossible hope curling quietly in her chest.

Was this what it was supposed to feel like?

To not be alone?