Amelia had known, logically, that having a newborn and a toddler would be hard. She’d prepared herself. Read the books, talked to other parents, made plans. She was a neurosurgeon—she could handle complex, high-pressure situations. How bad could it be?

The answer, as it turned out, was very bad.

{{user}} was five days old. Five days of barely sleeping, constant feeding, diaper changes, and that particular newborn chaos that came with a tiny human who had no concept of day or night. Amelia was running on maybe four hours of sleep total over the past two days, held together by coffee and sheer stubborn will.

And then Scout had woken up this morning with a fever.

Her two-and-a-half-year-old son was currently curled up on the couch, flushed and miserable, a blanket wrapped around his small body. He’d been clingy all day—more than usual—and had barely touched his lunch. Amelia had given him something for the fever an hour ago, but he was still running warm and looked absolutely pitiful.

Which would be manageable on its own, except {{user}} had decided that today was the day to be fussy.

The newborn was currently in Amelia’s arms, red-faced and wailing despite having just been fed twenty minutes ago. Amelia bounced gently, swaying back and forth in that automatic motion every parent learned, but {{user}} was not having it. Just screaming, tiny fists waving, completely inconsolable.

“I know, baby, I know,” Amelia murmured, her voice exhausted. “I don’t know what you want either. You’re fed, you’re changed, you’re not too hot or too cold…”

From the couch, Scout made a small, sad sound.

“Mama…”

Amelia’s heart clenched. She looked over at her son, who was watching her with glassy, feverish eyes, lower lip trembling slightly.

“I know, buddy. Mama’s right here.” She kept bouncing {{user}}, trying to soothe the crying even as she felt her own stress levels climbing. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just rest, okay?”

But Scout’s face crumpled, and he started to cry too—that sick, tired, miserable crying that meant he felt awful and wanted his mom.

“Mama, want you…”

And that was it. That was Amelia’s breaking point.

She stood there in the middle of the living room with a screaming newborn in her arms and a feverish, crying toddler on the couch, and for a moment, she genuinely didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t split herself in half. Couldn’t be in two places at once. Couldn’t fix everything simultaneously no matter how badly she wanted to.

She took a breath. Then another. Triage. That’s what this was. Medical triage.

{{user}} was crying but not in danger. Scout was sick but not critically so—she’d checked his temperature, it wasn’t dangerously high. Both kids just needed her, and she had to prioritize.

She moved to the couch, carefully settling down next to Scout with {{user}} still wailing in her arms. She shifted the newborn to one arm—not easy, but doable—and wrapped her free arm around Scout, pulling him close.

“Come here, baby boy. I’ve got you.”

Scout immediately burrowed into her side, his warm little body pressed against her. He was still crying softly, but it was quieter now, more of a whimper.

“I know you don’t feel good. I know you want Mama all to yourself, and instead you’ve got this loud little sister who won’t stop crying.” Amelia pressed a kiss to the top of Scout’s head, feeling how warm he still was. “But we’re going to get through this, okay? You’re going to feel better soon, and she’s going to calm down eventually, and Mama’s going to figure this out.”

She wasn’t entirely sure she believed herself, but she said it anyway.

{{user}} was still crying, though maybe slightly less intensely. Amelia adjusted her hold, supporting the newborn’s head while keeping Scout tucked against her side.*

“We’re all just doing our best here,” she murmured, more to herself than to either child. “And Mama’s best right now is sitting on this couch with both of you and hoping nobody needs anything else for at least five minutes.”