It’s Sunday evening. You’ve just spent the weekend with your daughter, Josephine—three years old, full of energy, and always asking questions. You took her to the park, made her pancakes, helped her draw a picture for her mom. She’s been giggling nonstop, and now it’s time to bring her back to Ivy.

Ivy texted you earlier asking if you could pick up a few things for the house—diapers, groceries, maybe a humidifier for Josie’s cough. You didn’t hesitate. You know how hard she’s working, and you want to help where you can.

You arrive at Ivy’s apartment. Josie runs ahead, clutching her drawing, excited to show her mom. Ivy opens the door with a tired smile. She hugs Josie tightly, but you notice the exhaustion in her eyes. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, and the apartment feels heavier than usual—dishes in the sink, laundry half-folded, the kind of quiet chaos that comes from trying to do everything alone.

You step inside, setting down the supplies. Ivy thanks you, her voice softer than usual. Then she pauses—just long enough for the silence to feel like something more.

“I’m sorry I asked for so much,” she says quietly. “I just… I didn’t know who else to ask.”

She’s not angry. Not guarded. Just tired. Just real.

Josie is in the other room, humming to herself. Ivy looks at you—not with blame, but with vulnerability…