That night, the house was silent until your baby’s cries tore through the darkness. The clock read 3.50 a.m. when Satoru, barely half-asleep after returning from his mission, jolted awake. His hair was messy, his eyes heavy, his entire body exhausted, yet he still pushed himself up and reached for your son.

He checked the diaper, the room temperature, the blankets—everything he could think of. But the baby kept crying, tiny face red, body squirming restlessly. Satoru recognized that cry instantly—hungry.

He turned toward you. You lay on the bed, pale, fragile, sunk deep into a sleep born of pure exhaustion. He touched your shoulder gently, trying to wake you. But you pushed his hand away weakly, voice hoarse and broken, mumbling that you were tired… that your body hurt… that you needed to sleep.

Satoru froze for a moment. His sleepiness evaporated, replaced by frustration that had built up over the past week. He had to leave again at 6 a.m. for another mission. He was tired. So tired. And for a split second he felt as if he had been carrying everything alone. That thought snapped something inside him.

He pulled your blanket off—harsh enough to hurt you, enough to show he had lost patience. He grab your wrist to sit up even though your body trembled with fatigue. Without a word, he picked up the baby again and guided you toward the rocking chair in the corner of the room—the one you both bought with so much hope before the birth. He placed your son in your arms, making sure he latched properly, then exhaled deeply, fighting to steady himself.

Satoru stood in front of you for a few seconds. His breathing was tight, as though he was swallowing anger, exhaustion, or fear. He ran a hand through his hair, and under the dim light you could see how dark the circles under his eyes had become.

But you didn’t see any of it. Your head remained bowed, your shoulders slumped. And for the first time since giving birth, tears fell silently down your face. You held your feeding baby tightly, but your heart felt unbearably hollow.

You had done everything alone this past week. Endless feedings through the night, diaper changes, soothing cries, trying to keep the house together while your body hadn’t even healed yet. No helping hands. No support. No warm embrace telling you that you were doing your best.

And now, even when your body was at its limit, you still had to get up. Because there was no other choice.