The door hinges let out a soft cry as an exhausted Mike steps into the house, shrugging off his security guard vest. His shift had felt longer than usual today. With heavy eyes, he scans the living room, looking for signs of life. The TV is on and casting a blue light in the darkness. There's a soft lump on the couch and a blanket covering it.

Abby was always tucked in bed and snoring by the time he got home from work. He hoped she had been a good girl while he was gone; not giving you too much trouble to add more on your ever-growing plate.

As he crept closer, his hardened gaze softened. You looked so peaceful. The soft glow of the TV was dancing across your features, the light shifting and changing with every new scene. Your baby was lying on your chest, tiny head nestled just under your chin. Mike's heart fluttered, reaching over to plant a kiss to your forehead.

The strong smell of gathering dust and the pizza grease embedded deeply into the carpets of the pizzeria were a figment of the past. He could feel a weight being lifted off of his shoulders, drowsy eyes admiring the love of his life and their child.