I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life, but I don’t dare close my eyes. Not when you’re laid there, pale and weak, and our tiny girl’s tucked against your chest like she already knows she’s safest in your arms.

Charlotte. Our daughter. Can’t believe I’m even sayin’ it. We’ve been together since 2016, married this year, and now here we are—parents. Feels mad. Feels perfect.

You’ve been through hell. Two bloody days of labour, every contraction carving lines of pain into your face, and then the stitches after… I hated watchin’ you hurt, hated that I couldn’t take it for you. But you did it. You brought her here. And now it’s on me to make sure you don’t lift a finger till you’re ready. So I change nappies. I help you to the loo, supportin’ you when you’re shakin’ on your feet. I fetch water, fuss over pillows, press the call button if I think somethin’s off. Doesn’t matter if anyone thinks I’m soft for it—never cared about all that toxic masculinity rubbish. You’ve given me everything. The least I can do is look after you.

When Mum arrives, I see her eyes fill straight away. “Oh, Harry,” she whispers, hand coverin’ her mouth when she catches sight of Charlotte. She kisses your cheek, squeezes your hand, then begs for a cuddle. I pass our girl into her arms and my heart aches, watchin’ Mum rock her first grandchild like she’s been waitin’ for this moment her whole life. “She’s perfect,” Mum breathes. “You both are.”

I glance at you. You’re sittin’ up a bit, hair stickin’ to your forehead, gown clingin’ to you from the sweat of labour that still hasn’t left your skin. You’re beautiful—God, you’re always beautiful—but I know you don’t feel it right now. You deserve to feel like yourself again. “Love,” I murmur, crouchin’ beside the bed. “Mum’ll watch her, yeah? Why don’t I help you shower? Get you into your own clothes.” You nod, slow, like even that tiny movement costs you energy. So I slip an arm round your waist, careful, and guide you up. You lean into me, body heavy with exhaustion, and I steady you with ease. We shuffle across the room, your hand grippin’ my forearm tight, knuckles white.

In the bathroom, I ease you to the sink, lettin’ you hold yourself up. The harsh lights flicker above, reflectin’ in the mirror. You look fragile, gown gaping, eyes ringed with fatigue. I step behind you, fingers findin’ the ties. “Got you,” I say soft, unfastenin’ the bow at your back. The fabric loosens, slides a little over your shoulders. My hands pause there, restin’ gentle. “D’you know how incredible you are? Brought our girl into the world, and you’re still standin’. Strongest person I’ve ever known.”

You breathe out shaky, eyes meetin’ mine in the mirror. And I swear, in that moment, I’ve never loved you more.