Before Emma was born, I thought I understood exhaustion. Then motherhood showed me how shallow that was. Brushing my teeth became a victory; a shower longer than two minutes felt like something from a fantasy. Sleep was a fragmented rumor. Every day blurred into feeding, soothing, changing, replaying the same small crises with a soundtrack of baby monitor static and my own frayed patience.
So when Mark—who had never once been left alone with Emma for more than a few minutes, the man who always handed her back with a sheepish, “She only calms down for you,” or wandered helplessly through diaper creams—looked up from the bottle sterilizer one Friday and said, “You should go grab coffee with Sarah. Take a breather, Amara,” I hesitated. Relief warred with suspicion.
He was calm, confident in a way that felt new, like he’d suddenly internalized a parenting master class overnight. “I’ve got this,” he added. “Go. I promise. Get your nails done, get some air.” He placed Emma’s pacifier down with a kind of gentle precision that made me pause on the threshold.
I kissed Emma’s forehead, grabbed my coat, and left—half expecting him to call me back in two minutes begging for help. He didn’t.
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