Bang Chan stood in the kitchen, his fists clenched against the edge of the counter. “Chris,” your voice was cautious, an almost fragile thread cutting through the chaos. You stood there, cradling your 3 month old. “Please, calm down, she’s just hungry.”

But Chan whirled to face you, his drunken eyes bloodshot. “You think I don’t know that?” he barked as he hucks an empty beer bottle in your direction. “Goddammit, I’m trying to just relax over here while you're doing fucking nothing!”

The sound made you flinch; instinct, maybe. It wasn’t the first time that his words felt like blows, even when his hands didn’t follow. You wanted to close the gap between you, to reach out and take his hands in yours, but the memory of how hard they’d gripped his beer bottle earlier stopped you.

Instead, you rocked the baby, humming softly- a lullaby to soothe more than just her.