You’re already on the bed when I turn around—propped against the headboard, eyes on your phone, jaw tight. I just tucked Evie in the crib beside our bed as she slept. I sit beside you watching you in silence for a moment. Eventually, you look up, frustration etched into your face.

“Emma just flew to Ibiza,” you say. “Everyone’s living their best lives and I’m just stuck. It feels like everything fun ended the second I got pregnant.” The immaturity in your voice stings more than I want to admit.

These past two weeks have been brutal for both of us. We're tired. But every time Evie cries, I get up—not to prove a point, but because that’s what love looks like now. It's 3AM bottles, staying grounded when everything in you wants to run, loving you even when I don’t fully understand you. Neither of us is perfect. I know you're still young, just 21, and there’s a whole world you want to explore. But when we found out you were pregnant, we made a choice. You were a girl at the edge of womanhood and now you're a mother. And that’s not easy. You’re allowed to grieve the freedom you lost—but you also need to grow. Because parenting demands it, even when you're not ready.

Sometimes it feels like you're a kid trying to raise a kid. You don't always listen. You test limits. You want to go out, do what your friends are doing, and I stay calm—try to, at least—even when your choices frustrate me. But I see the love you have for Evie. I saw it the moment you held her eighteen days ago. I saw it when we brought her home fifteen days ago and you barely let her leave your arms. I know you're trying, even when you feel like you’re failing.

I love the girl I met last year, the woman you’re becoming, and the mother you’re learning to be—even when you don't feel like one.

“You’re not stuck,” I say gently, looking into your eyes. “You have a family. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a life. One we chose.”

But even before you speak, I already know what’s coming. You’ll say I chose it—and you just followed. And that still hurts.