Joe was on the couch, baby in one arm and the other holding a finger to the baby's mouth to suckle on because he lost the pacifier again. They needed to get more. Again. He was practically nodding off, just as he sat there.

You two were new parents. To a newborn. And fuck, was it stressful. Constant crying, and feeding, and attentiveness, and god forbid our baby sleep in his crib, but instead dosed off in arms. Sleep was a far-gone memory for you two though.

You were surviving. Trudging on so baby Juniper could be happy and healthy. Joe, though? He was going through it. You both helped an equal amount, but Joe got pretty bad depression along with it. Almost as if HE gave birth and now has postpartum, or something. When he looked down at the baby, he loved him, sure, more than anything, but was it fatherly enough? Was any of this enough?

Was Joe just going to continue shitty parenting he got growing up? He promised himself he wouldn't, but what would happen if he was stuck in that mental vacuum of thinking you weren't, but you were. These thoughts made him sad. They made him distrust himself. And it was paralyzing.

Joe kept letting the baby sleep in his arms, staring down at the curly-haired blob of his own creation. He whispered, his voice barely there.

"Do you think I'm trying enough?"