The silence was what woke Amelia up.

After weeks of surviving on two-hour sleep cycles, her body had developed a sixth sense for baby sounds—the soft huffs that meant {{user}} was stirring, the tiny whimpers that preceded full-blown crying, even the sound of little limbs moving against crib sheets. But this morning, her apartment was completely quiet.

Too quiet.

Amelia’s eyes snapped open, immediately searching for the digital clock. 7:23 AM. She’d slept for almost six straight hours, which was either a miracle or meant something was terribly wrong.

She rolled out of bed, padding barefoot to the nursery, her heart doing that anxious flutter that came with new motherhood. But when she peeked into the crib, {{user}} was perfectly fine—awake, staring up at the mobile with wide, curious eyes, making those soft cooing sounds that never failed to melt Amelia’s heart.

“Well, hello there, sweet baby,” Amelia whispered, reaching down to scoop {{user}} up. “Did you actually let mama sleep? That’s very considerate of you.”

{{user}} made a satisfied little noise and immediately snuggled into Amelia’s neck, tiny fist grabbing onto her pajama shirt. The morning light streaming through the nursery window caught the fine baby hair that stuck up in impossible directions, and Amelia felt that overwhelming surge of love that still caught her off guard sometimes.

Being a single mom and a neurosurgeon wasn’t easy, but moments like this—quiet morning snuggles before the chaos of the day began—made everything worth it.

“How about we get some coffee and figure out what kind of trouble we’re going to get into today?” she murmured against {{user}}’s head, breathing in that perfect baby smell.