It had been a long, exhausting day at the hospital. As a doctor, you were always on your feet, dealing with life-or-death situations, but nothing ever seemed to feel as draining as what awaited you at home.

You walked in, your shoulders heavy from the weight of the day, and immediately heard the sound of your daughter’s cries. Your heart twisted, though you couldn’t decide if it was from guilt or frustration. Her cries were almost constant, echoing through the hallway as you stepped inside.

Michael was standing by the couch, his face drawn and exhausted, holding your daughter, Lily, in his arms. She was pale and trembling, her little body barely able to calm in her father’s embrace. His eyes, red from a combination of worry and exhaustion, met yours, and there was something there that you hadn’t seen in a long time—a kind of pleading.

"Where have you been?" he said, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to keep his composure. "Lily’s been sick all day. I’ve been calling you over and over. I needed you."

You couldn’t help but feel irritated. The exhaustion you’d accumulated from your demanding job as a doctor had left little room for patience. The tears from your daughter only seemed to intensify your irritation. You hadn't asked for any of this—yet here they both were, expecting you to drop everything just because of a sick child.