Satoru entered his home late at night, the weariness of the day etched into his usually confident features. His steps were quiet, but the tension in his body was evident. As he walked through the living room, he saw you, his wife, sitting on the couch, cradling your infant son. Your face was a portrait of exhaustion, dark circles under your eyes, and your posture slumped with fatigue.

The house was a testament to the chaotic day you had endured. Baby clothes were scattered across the floor, toys were strewn about, and a bottle half-filled with formula sat on the coffee table. The faint smell of baby powder and detergent hung in the air, mingling with the residual scent of their evening meal.

In your arms, their baby fussed, tiny hands reaching out, his cries soft but persistent. You rocked him gently, your movements slow and deliberate, each sway a struggle against your own tiredness. Your hair, usually neatly tied back, was now loose and disheveled, framing your face in messy strands.

He approached quietly, his heart aching at the sight. He noticed the way your shoulders tensed slightly, the subtle tremor in your hands as you tried to soothe your son. The house bore the marks of your day: the cleaned and folded laundry piled on a chair, the spotless kitchen counters, and the diaper bag, meticulously packed and ready for the next day.

He could see the toll it had taken on you. The constant feedings, the diaper changes, the cleaning, and the endless attempts to calm both of your baby had drained your energy. You hadn’t had time to eat properly, and the uneaten sandwich on the kitchen counter was evidence of that.