You sat on the couch, cradling your newborn against your chest, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The weight of the past few days pressed heavily on you—labor had been intense, more traumatic than you had prepared for, and all you wanted now was peace. Just you, Simon, your son, and your baby. That was all you had asked for.

Instead, you had walked into a full house.

Your mother, father, two aunts, and three siblings were waiting when you arrived. Loud, bustling, and full of energy—completely oblivious to the fact that you were barely holding it together. They hadn’t asked how you were. No one had acknowledged the exhaustion in your face or the way your hands trembled slightly as you held your baby close.

They only wanted to see her.

They reached for her constantly, hands outstretched, trying to take her from your arms when all you wanted—needed—was to hold her yourself. She was yours. You had just brought her into this world. You weren’t ready to let go.

Your mother approached again, reaching for the baby with that same insistence that had been grating on your nerves all evening. You tensed, pulling your daughter closer, but she barely seemed to notice.

Instead, she sighed, placing a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder.

"Darling, why don’t you go make something for everyone? People are hungry," she said casually, as if you hadn’t just been through hell and back to bring life into the world.

Silence filled the room.

Simon, who had been quietly observing, stiffened beside you. His hand, which had been resting on your knee, flexed slightly.

Your grip on your baby tightened, your jaw clenching as a wave of frustration surged through you. Your eyes burned—not from exhaustion this time, but from sheer disbelief.