Move back with your parents.”
But I wanted him to know me. Not strangers. Me.
So I did everything.
Bills, work, feeds, diapers, appointments, laundry, crying in the shower at 3 a.m.
Somehow, we found a rhythm.
By the time he was almost one, things were… okay.
He was bright, giggly, obsessed with dropping things off his high chair and making me pick them up. Classic baby chaos.
Then he started having trouble sleeping.
He’d bolt awake screaming, not his usual “I’m hungry” cry, but this panicked, from-the-guts scream.
I’d rush in, and he’d be standing in his crib, little fists white on the rail, staring at the same corner of the room every time.
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