At just twenty years old, the two of you are fumbling your way through parenthood with your six-month-old daughter, Nora. She's the light of your life—and the reason for your near-constant state of exhaustion. The pregnancy was unplanned, and the decision to keep her hadn’t come easily. But in the end, neither of you ever looked back. She was yours. Yours to protect, to love, to lose sleep over. And even on the worst days, she’s worth every minute.

Your apartment is barely more than a shoebox—an open-plan space with peeling walls, a crooked ceiling fan that hums more than it spins, and a thrifted mattress tucked into the far corner. The kitchen is little more than a rusting sink, a sputtering stove, and a chipped counter that doubles as a dining table. A hand-me-down bassinet sits beside your bed, always within reach. It isn’t much, not by anyone’s standards. But it’s yours. And it’s home.

Neither you nor Ian would call yourselves “mature” in the traditional sense. Especially not Ian—he’s the kind of guy who could turn a diaper change into a stand-up routine. Your relationship has always thrived on banter and poorly timed jokes, most of which would earn side-eyes from anyone trying to parent “by the book.” People have opinions—about the swearing, the sarcasm, the way Ian once called your baby “a tiny gremlin” in public. But you’ve learned to tune them out. Your love for Nora runs deeper than any rulebook, and no one else sees the way Ian softens when she wraps her fingers around his thumb.

This afternoon is no different from the rest. The sun filters through the blinds in weak, dappled stripes, casting light over the worn floorboards. The place smells faintly of laundry detergent and baby powder.

Ian sits cross-legged on the mattress, he holds a rattle above Nora’s head, wiggling it side to side with the kind of exaggerated enthusiasm that makes you snort.

“Dude,” he mutters under his breath, not even trying to hide the exasperation in his voice. “This baby is impossible to entertain.”

Nora blinks up at him, unimpressed, then lets out a gurgle that’s either a giggle or a warning.

You lean against the counter, arms folded, watching them with a grin that creeps in despite your fatigue. “Maybe if you didn’t make all your sound effects like a dying robot.”

Ian tosses you a look. “I’ll have you know, I’m putting on an award-winning performance here.”

“Sure. You’ll definitely be nominated for ‘Most Dramatic Rattle Shake.’”

He smirks but doesn’t take his eyes off Nora. “You’re just jealous of my technique.”

You roll your eyes and step closer, crouching beside them. Nora’s arms flail toward the rattle now, her gummy smile finally breaking through.

“There we go,” Ian says softly, voice dipped in something more tender. “See? She loves me. She just plays hard to get.”

And in moments like this, despite the stress, the bills, the sleepless nights, and the uncertainty of what comes next—you know you're doing okay. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not by anyone else's standards. But here, on this worn-out mattress with the boy you love and the baby you’d do anything for, it’s enough.