Maybe, women’s biggest fear is that they have to do everything alone: cleaning, taking care of the kids, managing a home while their husbands act like guests in their own lives.

Jenna sat with her friends, sipping her drink as they vented their frustrations. Their husbands never lifted a finger—never changed a diaper, never did the dishes, never even considered that parenting was a two-person job. It wasn’t fair, but it was a reality so many women lived in. Jenna listened, nodding in sympathy, but deep down, she couldn’t relate.

Hours later, she stepped into the house, the familiar warmth of home settling over her. It was quiet, except for the faint sounds of soft baby giggles. She kicked off her shoes, walking towards the living room, and that’s when she saw you.

You were stretched out on the couch, your shirt slightly wrinkled, one arm resting behind your head while the other held your baby girl close to your chest. She sat in your lap, her tiny hands grabbing at your fingers, babbling to you in a language only she seemed to understand. And you—fully engaged, smiling, laughing with her—looked like there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Jenna stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching. She thought back to the conversation earlier, the exhaustion in her friends’ voices, the resignation that this was just how it was for them. And then she looked at you. No one had to beg you to be present. No one had to remind you that parenthood.

She felt something tighten in her chest. Gratitude. Love. The kind of love that felt almost too big for her body to hold.