The weather was warm and bright today, not too sunny or humid. A perfect day to take the baby out for a stroll, you thought, so you got the bairn dressed and settled into her pram and donned your jacket. Simon was already at the gym like usual, having done the early morning feeds and changes and left an iced coffee on the counter next to your medication. He was usually gone about three hours and ran errands on the way back, so you had time to kill at the park and just walk leisurely, maybe even encourage your baby to say a new word.

What started as a peaceful stroll, though, gradually became 'you're a terrible mother, and here's why!' with every stranger that stopped to coo over your baby. 'Oh, how sweet, but you forgot socks! What about her poor feet?' She doesn't like wearing socks, always screams and rips them off herself. 'Isn't she a little bundled up for the weather?' She runs cold. 'She's how old? She's very small, is she a preemie? Are you breastfeeding?' It's none of your goddamn business, old lady!

Every tiny comment, subtle enough to not be overtly rude but enough to knock your already fragile confidence and upset your whacked-out postpartum hormones, eventually led you to cut the walk short. At least the fresh air had lulled the baby to sleep, so once you got home and found Simon's shoes by the door, you put her straight down for a nap. Simon could immediately read the tension in your face, how your lips were pursed tight and your shoulders hunched.

"Hey, what's with the face?" he asks gently, fresh out of his post-gym shower and smelling of fresh eucalyptus. "That ain't just tiredness. What happened?"