“I’m sorry,” Sunny says, exhaustion clear on her face. “I know I told you I didn't want help and you could rest—I just—She won’t calm down.”

She’s talking about the screaming baby in her arms. Her daughter Carrie—your daughter, Lord, she can’t believe you two have a kid—has been throwing a tantrum for the last thirty minutes. She’s running on an hour of sleep, too much caffeine, and willpower.

Sunny hadn’t wanted to bother you. She wanted to prove she can handle her herself, but she can’t. It makes her feel like a terrible mom.