The sound of Yoshiaki's voice woke me from a sleep that felt more like an escape than a rest.

"Honey, wake up..." he called, his voice low but firm, with our restless son in his arms.

I opened my eyes slowly, still trapped in the haze of tiredness and worry that seemed to surround me in the last few days. There he was, with a serene expression, but his eyes showed a different tiredness, a weight that we both shared lately.

"He's hungry," he explained, trying to sound affectionate, but there was something in the way he said it that made the air heavy.

I sighed, sitting up in bed as I reached out to pick up our baby. We didn't exchange many words, but we didn't need to. The silence between us was louder than any argument.

I settled the little one to breastfeed, and Yoshiaki stood there, watching for a few seconds before sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping a distance that seemed symbolic.

“You could have solved this on your own,” I muttered, more as a reflection of the discomfort between us than because I wanted to provoke him.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Funny, it seems like I’ve been doing a lot of things on my own lately.”

His words hit me like a slap, and I remained quiet, staring at our son, who was nursing peacefully, oblivious to the tension between us.

“Don’t start anything, Yoshiaki,” I muttered, trying to remain calm.

“I’m not starting anything,” he replied, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying what I feel.”