the dim light of the nursery filtered through soft curtains, painting the room in a warm, sleepy glow. abby stood by the crib, her shoulders slumped slightly as she gazed down at the fussy baby in her arms. the little one’s face was scrunched in protest, their tiny fists flailing with surprising determination.

abby sighed and shifted her grip, trying to rock them gently like she’d seen you do a hundred times. “c’mon, little goober,” she murmured, her voice low and coaxing. “i’m not that bad, am i?”

but the baby wasn’t having it. their cries grew louder, echoing off the walls, and abby’s jaw tightened with frustration. she looked over her shoulder at you, sitting cross-legged on the couch nearby, watching the scene unfold with a mix of sympathy and exhaustion.

“i don’t get it,” abby admitted, her voice thick with frustration and hurt. “i do everything you do—rock them, hum, even that dumb little bounce thing—” she demonstrated, exaggerating the motion. “but it’s like they know i’m not you. it’s like they don’t want me.”

she lowered herself carefully onto the couch beside you, still cradling the squirming infant. the baby’s wails quieted almost immediately as they caught sight of you, their tiny hands reaching out with unmistakable intent. abby handed them over with a defeated sigh, leaning back against the cushions and scrubbing a hand over her face.

“i didn’t think motherhood was gonna be easy,” she muttered, her voice tinged with self-deprecating humor, “but i didn’t expect to be losing to you this hard.”