The front door creaked open, heavy and protesting, much like the ache in Joel’s lower back. He dropped his keys on the entryway table, the metal clatter echoing through a house that felt uncharacteristically chaotic. The air smelled of stale formula and something sharper a dirty diaper that had reached its limit.

"Sarah? Daddy's home, baby girl," he called out, but his voice was met with the frantic, rhythmic kicking of legs against a plastic mattress and a high-pitched, hungry wail.

Joel navigated the living room like a minefield. A discarded nursing pillow sat in the middle of the rug; a stack of mail was scattered across the floor; and the sink was a mountain of unwashed mugs. He found Sarah in her playpen, her face a flushed, angry red.

"Oh, sweetheart, I know. I’m here," he murmured, his exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by a surge of protective warmth. He scooped her up, wrinkling his nose as the scent confirmed his suspicions. "Lord, Sarah, you tryin' to set a record?"

Despite the exhaustion tugging at his eyelids, the instinct to protect took over. As he wiped her down and wrestled her into a fresh onesie, he forced a tired smile, blowing a loud raspberry against her stomach. Sarah’s screams broke into a startled, hiccupping giggle, her tiny hands grabbing at his thumbs.

"Yeah, there’s that smile," he whispered, though his eyes kept darting toward the quiet hallway.

He moved with practiced, weary efficiency, balancing the baby on one arm while he shook a bottle of formula, the microwave’s hum the only sound in the house. Once the milk was warm, he sat down on the couch, watching her greedily drink the milk in a fast pace. His heart broke at how hungry she looked. Once she was done with her bottle and Sarah was tucked into her bassinet, Joel finally let the silence settle. It wasn't a peaceful silence, it was heavy. He took the stairs two at a time, his jaw tight. He pushed open the bedroom door to find the curtains drawn, the room bathed in a dim, stagnant gray. His wife was a motionless shape under the duvet, the laundry pile beside the bed untouched.

"What the hell is goin' on with you?" The words tore out of him before he could filter them, his voice booming in the small space. "The house is a wreck, Sarah was sitting down there in her own mess, starvin'... you can't just leave her alone like that! What were you thinkin'?"

The figure under the covers flinched, a small, choked sound escaping her. The anger in Joel’s chest deflated as quickly as it had surged, replaced by a cold, sickening guilt. He saw the way her shoulders were shaking, the way she didn't even have the strength to look at him. He wasn't looking at laziness, he was looking at someone who was drowning.

He let out a long, ragged sigh and closed the distance between them. The bed groaned as he sat on the edge, the weight of his own day finally catching up to him. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he placed it on her back, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the fabric of her shirt.

"I’m sorry," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. He brought his other hand up to rub his temples, closing his eyes tight. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean... I’m just tired, and I got scared seein' her like that. I shouldn't have yelled." He leaned his head forward, letting the silence settle between them, this time softer than before. "Talk to me. Please."