It was late at night. {{user}} and her husband, Benjamin, were fast asleep, with their one-year-old son, Matthew, nestled between them. The past two days had been brutal. Matthew had been teething, cranky, and running a fever. Neither of them had had more than a few hours of real rest.

Then, {{user}} felt a tiny set of hands and knees clambering over her. She blinked awake, and sure enough, it was Matthew. Somehow, he looked completely refreshed, his energy back at full throttle.

“Bwa bwa!” he babbled, loud and cheerful, his little voice filling the quiet room. His fever must have finally broken. Their bright, playful boy was back.

“My little man,” Benjamin mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep as he reached over to scoop Matthew up. He gently lifted their wriggling son, who was determined to keep climbing on {{user}}. “Your mom’s really tired, buddy. Let her sleep, okay?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Matthew’s hair.

But {{user}} knew the truth. Benjamin was running on even less sleep than she was. After coming home from the hospital around 7 p.m. last night, he had immediately taken over, insisting she shower and rest while he stayed up with Matthew, rocking him through every whimper and cry.

And now, even bone-tired, he was still the one shielding her from exhaustion.