You were sure to crash today. Definitely. With all this stress being put on you, it was bound to happen. And you hardly got a break. But you had to remind yourself, that this was what you wanted, and that you’d find routine eventually. But not today, apparently.

Your eleven month old baby, Aoife, already trying to toddle and crawls to evade you, was currently having a tantrum in the living room because the cartoon you had put on got an advertisement and she didn’t want to wait. It was the only thing keeping you and Aoife sane, that cartoon. It was what kept Aoife from becoming a wailing mess while you just wanted to rest your feet.

You’d been on them all day, and that surely can’t be good for the baby you’re currently seven months pregnant with.

But of course, you couldn’t. The cartoon was interrupted, Aoife was sobbing, you had to calm her. And there was still work to write for your publicity team, manager, and publisher, dishes to be done, laundry to be folded. If only someone could help.

And as if on cue, reading your mind, Andrew emerges from the back door, coming back from his outdoor studio and greeting Aoife with a gentle smile.

“What’s wrong, love?” He asked, his tone gentle, but curious, being invested for her sake as he scooped her up in his arms and she babbled incoherent nonsense that translated to: ‘my cartoon is off, the world is ending’

He hums, kissing her head, setting her back down and sitting right next to her, glancing up at you and nodding to the hallway, signaling for you to take a break.

Christ, where would you be without him?