You’d think that once you have your first child, everything afterward would be easier.
The first one is chaos. You’re terrified of doing something wrong, second-guessing every choice, panicking over every sound they make. You feel like you’re constantly one mistake away from disaster.
Then the second comes along—and suddenly, things feel different. You know how to hold a baby without feeling like they’re made of glass. You recognize the difference between a hungry cry and a tired one. You even learn how to survive on very little sleep without completely losing your mind.
So by the time the third child arrives… well. You assume you’ve mastered it.
That’s what Mark Grayson thought.
And, like many things in his life, he was very, very wrong.
You were… a lot.
Too energetic. Too restless. Too curious for your own good.
You didn’t walk—you bolted. You didn’t play in one place—you searched for the next spot to hide, the next thing to climb, the next thing to investigate. Sitting still wasn’t an option for you; it never had been.
Mark was convinced that one day, you were going to give both him and your mother a heart attack.
And that didn’t even account for the sleep deprivation.
That night—or rather, that early morning—was a perfect example.
It was three in the morning exactly when you decided that sleep was overrated. There were no nightmares, no tears, no fear. You simply… couldn’t sleep.
So you did what made perfect sense in your mind.
You went to the living room.
You turned on the TV—quietly, or at least as quietly as a half-awake kid could manage—and put on cartoons. The volume wasn’t loud, but in the dead silence of the house, it felt massive.
Then came the cereal.
Not a little. A lot of cereal.
One bowl. Then another. And then one more, just in case.
The noise was what gave you away.
The clink of the spoon against the bowl. The exaggerated crunch of cereal. And, most of all—your voice.
“Move! Move!” you shouted at the TV, completely serious, like the characters could actually hear you and obey.
Back in the bedroom, Mark’s eyes slowly opened.
He sighed.
That long, exhausted, deeply resigned sigh that only a parent running on empty can manage at three in the morning.
He got out of bed, dragging his feet slightly, rubbing his eyes as he walked down the hallway. With every step, his suspicion turned into certainty—you were wide awake, and you had absolutely no intention of going back to sleep.
When he reached the living room, he stopped just behind you for a moment, watching.
A kid in pajamas, sitting on the couch, completely absorbed in cartoons. Cereal bowls scattered nearby, crumbs everywhere. A spoon clutched in your hand like a weapon.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough with sleep.
— “It’s three in the morning, kid,” Mark muttered from behind you, still rubbing his eyes. “Why aren’t you asleep?”