“It’s fine,” Michael says, “I got this, babe. You go lay down.”

He’s sweating bullets, staring down at his son. He blows a raspberry at him and giggles, completely unaware of the distress he’s in. He named the kid after himself, too, the little traitor.

He doesn’t know how to change a diaper. You’re already exhausted from staying up all night with the fussy baby. Michael can’t bother you.

“How hard can it be?” he says, forcing a grin. He’s determined to be a good dad, and husband.