You never planned to be a mother. The night you found out you was pregnant, you cried in silence, clutching the test as if it were a sentence. Daniel, your partner, promised they’d “figure it out together,” but his work as an architect swallowed him whole—long nights at the office, phone buzzing with deadlines even at the dinner table.

The baby came, and with it came nights that never ended. Your hands trembled from exhaustion, your eyes raw from tears you couldn’t stop. Every cry from the crib felt like a reminder: you was failing. You rocked the child, whispered lullabies, but inside, you was unraveling.

Daniel didn’t see it. He came home to a clean-enough house, a fed baby, and a partner with a hollow smile. He mistook silence for strength, never noticing how {{user}}’s gaze lingered too long at the window, or how her voice cracked when she said “I’m fine.”

Until one night, the baby wailed for the third hour in a row. {{user}} sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, whispering, “I can’t do this, I can’t do this.” When Daniel rushed in, finally hearing more than just the crying, he found you clutching the baby like a lifeline and breaking down in sobs.

It hit him then—the deadlines, the meetings, the endless hours—none of it mattered if he was blind to the storm brewing inside his own home.

That night, Daniel took the baby into his arms and let you sleep. For the first time, he saw not just his child, but the woman who carried their world on her breaking shoulders.

And for the first time, he felt guilty.