He’d been an angel, honestly. Through the entire pregnancy, and the weeks that’d come after. Even when you yelled at him, cursed him for making you go through this (though, really, it was only half his fault). He’d soothe you, agree that he was completely to blame, held you until you fell asleep through your discomfort.

And he’d held onto that calm demeanor after the birth. You didn’t understand how he did it, when you’d very much come close to wanting to rip your hair out when the crying seemed never ending.

Your baby is placed on his chest as he lays back against the couch, baby falling in and out of sleep every few minutes. “So fussy,” Diego whispers.

He looks so put together compared to you as you make your way into the living room, hair messy, wearing one of his t-shirts that’s now adorned with stains. It almost makes you want to slap him.

“Mama,” he looks up at you, voice filled with affection, “you need anything? Comida? Un masaje? Need me to draw you a bath?”