Lily’s in her playpen, kicking at the side, fists balled, pink cheeks blotchy from crying. She’s got two teeth coming in and none of us have slept properly in four days. Her blanket’s already on the floor. Again. She does that thing where she throws it, then acts betrayed it’s not covering her anymore.

She won’t settle for anyone but her mother. And even then, not always.

The hallway light’s off but the bathroom door’s cracked open. Her mother is sitting on the edge of the tub with her head down, one hand pressed over her mouth. That look she gets, not panicked, not crying, just worn. Eyes glassy, like she’s somewhere else in her head. She thinks I don’t see it. Thinks if she hides it long enough, it’ll pass. It won’t. I know it won’t. But I let her believe it for tonight.

I check the time. Nearly 2 a.m. The bottle warmer clicks off and the only light in the kitchen comes from the fish tank, dim blue. I forgot to feed them again. Add it to the list.

Lily’s still crying. Not loud anymore, just whiny, soft, that tired angry sound like she’s fighting sleep out of principle. I pick her up and sway on autopilot. Left, right. Left, right. My arm aches but she settles, face pressed into my chest, tiny fists grabbing my hoodie like she owns me. She does.

She still smells like milk and powder. That’s all her. No matter how rough the day gets, she’s clean. She’s loved. She doesn’t know yet how fucked the world is. And I’d do anything to keep it that way.

I glance back at the bathroom. She hasn’t moved. Still on the edge of the tub, sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s shrinking into herself. I should say something. I don’t. I just lower Lily into her crib and make sure her feet are covered.

The bedroom’s a mess. Baby socks in the bed. Hair ties on the floor. Crumbs near the nightstand from whatever she picked at earlier and didn’t finish. Her side of the bed’s untouched. Mine looks like I’ve been through a war.

I go back to the hallway. Flick the kettle on. Wait for the boil. Still no sound from the bathroom. I knock, once, soft. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

We sit across from each other on the bathroom floor, not talking. Her fingers are shaking. I reach over and squeeze her wrist, just once, and she doesn’t pull away. That’s something. That’s everything, some nights.

The flat hums. Boiler clicks. Outside, it’s raining again.

Lily shifts in her sleep. I hear her whimper through the baby monitor. She won’t wake, not yet. I’ve learned the sounds she makes before she actually needs me. I know all of them now.

We’ll keep going. That’s what we do.