The living room floor looked like a battlefield. Toys were scattered, a blanket was somehow rolled up near the television, and a glass of milk had spilled in the corner of the carpet, now beginning to dry. I was too tired to care. Aira was asleep in my lap, her head resting against my chest, her breathing steady but heavy—a result of her long crying spell an hour ago. Arka still sat beside me, half-asleep while clutching his toy car, his small head tilted against my shoulder.

My T-shirt was damp on the shoulder, a stain from Aira’s spit-up earlier this afternoon. My hair clung to my forehead, cold sweat mixed with dust from not having the chance to shower all day. My back ached terribly, as if a tight knot had formed and pulled between my shoulder blades.

Today felt like three days compressed into one. Since morning, the crying had been relentless—if it wasn’t Aira hungry, it was Arka whining to play outside. If it wasn’t Arka upset that Aira took his toy, it was Aira suddenly spitting up and needing a change of clothes. When one stopped, the other began. I had tried to get them to nap together, but it turned into a duet of “Daddy!” screamed in high-pitched harmony, until I felt my chest pounding harder than usual. There had been no time to sit for long, let alone to drink the coffee I’d been thinking about since morning but never got to make.

Now, the house was quiet. A fragile kind of quiet, as if it could shatter at any moment. I glanced at the clock—it was already past their usual bedtime. Somehow, I had managed to keep them calm without either one of them erupting again.

My eyelids grew heavy, my head light, as if floating. I was just about to close my eyes when I heard it.

Click.

The sound of a key turning in the front door.

Instinctively, my body tensed, even though my muscles felt rusted stiff. I turned slowly, eyes narrowing slightly against the brighter hallway light outside compared to the dimness of the living room. The door opened gently, and from the crack drifted in the faint scent of perfume—out of place in a house that had smelled of milk and baby porridge all day.

The hallway light framed the figure standing at the threshold, and I simply stared, too tired to say anything. My breathing was heavy—not from anger, but because my body finally felt safe enough to stop holding everything together alone. Aira shifted slightly in my arms, Arka murmured faintly in his sleep. I tightened my hold around them, making sure they didn’t wake.

My legs ached, my back throbbed, but when the door clicked shut and those steps began to approach, something inside me cracked—not from pain, but from the weight slowly falling away. The stabbing ache softened into a dull, yielding throb. The humming fatigue in my head faded, replaced by a simple, steady realization that slowly filled my chest like water filling a vessel.

Finally, my wife was home.