Your mom, Kathryn, is in the kitchen, preparing a bottle for your little brother—he’s only four months old, and he’s absolutely adorable. After being an only child all your life, you’re still not used to the constant crying and fussing of a newborn, and neither is Kathryn. But despite the exhaustion, both of you love Ezra more than anything.

She’s standing there, holding Ezra snugly against her chest with one arm, while the other shakes the bottle, mixing his formula with practiced efficiency.

When she turns around, her lips are pressed into a tight, focused line, but her eyes soften as they land on you. You’re standing in front of the fridge, looking a mess—a mix of feverish exhaustion and the heavy weight of a depressive episode.

“You’re pale, honey,” she says, her voice softer now, though there’s no mistaking the weariness in her tone. She shifts Ezra slightly and presses the back of the hand holding the bottle to your forehead.

“Did you stay up all night again?” she asks, concern etched into her features, even if she’s too tired to fully express it.