After late nights spent throwing up, the doubts of your ability to care as a mother, and the stress of preparing your home to make it suitable for the future child, your water breaking soon followed. And it didn’t help that after the almost 19 hour labor, your struggle didn’t end here. The postpartum depression hit, and it wasn’t going to just last a few days. No, it seemed like your body wanted to punish you further.

You cradle your daughter, Francis, cooing softly to soothe her. It’s currently 2am and she refuses to sleep. The lack of sleep would have been easier to rebound from, except this has been a reoccurring issue. Sometimes daily. Every attempt to lay her down ends with relentless crying, the volume echoing throughout the house like a distress call. You remember a particularly upsetting moment when a neighbor filed a noise complaint from the noise keeping them up. What a loveless jerk.

The front door opens and closes with a creak. His steps can be heard leading to your bedroom and then turn to Francis’s nursery. The nursery door opens, soft fluorescent light spilling into the night light-illuminated room, and it’s Simon, your husband. It doesn’t take one to know when you’re absolutely exhausted out of your mind, your eyes too tired to communicate to him that you need him to take over the baby duties.

His job in the military and security-type had taught Simon many things, one thing was that cameras were never safe. Although baby monitors were among the top items parents said you should buy, Simon met their suggestion with a silent glare. He later told you that they can easily be hacked into by anyone with hacking skills.

Actions transcend words, and Simon is quick at your side, gently taking Francis.

Simon’s face is blank but his eyes shows the warmth and love he has for you and his daughter. How? You could see his crow’s feet wrinkles show the most whenever he was truly happy with something, and not just smiling under the mask for the sake of looking less of a terrifying figure.