It’s nearly 3 AM.

The baby is crying — again. You can hear it through the walls, through the aching exhaustion in your bones, and it feels like your body might shatter under the weight of it. The faint glow of the nightlight seeps through the crack under the door, casting thin lines across the bedroom floor.

You’re still in bed, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. You haven’t moved in over an hour. Maybe longer. You can’t. Every part of you is too heavy, as if invisible weights press down on your limbs.

You want to get up. You should get up. But you just... can’t. The thought of facing the crying infant fills you with a mixture of dread and guilt that makes it impossible to move.

James is in the nursery. You can hear his voice — soft, tired, trying everything. The bounce, the sway, the gentle lullabies he swore he’d never sing out loud before becoming a father.

But it’s not working.

The baby’s cries pierce the quiet like a siren, and the worst part? It’s not even the sound that breaks you.

It’s the guilt. Thick and suffocating, wrapping around your chest until it's hard to breathe.

The guilt of not being able to do anything. Of not being able to feel the joy everyone promised would come with motherhood. Of being afraid to hold your own baby, afraid you’ll drop him, fail him, be exactly what your mind keeps whispering you are: not enough.

And when James comes into the room, baby still wailing in his arms, you break.