The baby fussed softly against my chest, her tiny hands bunching the fabric of my t-shirt.
It was early. Too early.
The kind of early where even the sun wasn’t sure it wanted to wake up yet.
I sat at the edge of the couch, cradling her close, gently bouncing my leg to soothe her. The boys — six and three — were still asleep upstairs, and my husband was snoring lightly in our bed.
It was just me.
Me and the exhaustion that lived under my skin now, bone-deep and endless.
The living room was littered with toys and laundry and half-finished cups of coffee.
The walls felt heavy with the kind of silence that wasn't really peaceful — just lonely.
I pressed my cheek against the top of my daughter’s head and closed my eyes.
Just five minutes.
Five minutes of quiet before the chaos began.
The day exploded the way it always did.
Cereal spilled.
The three-year-old refused to wear pants.
The six-year-old couldn’t find his shoes.
The baby refused to be put down for more than two seconds without wailing like her world was ending.
And through it all, I moved — on autopilot, hands full, heart heavy.
I didn’t even realize I was moving until I was already there — tucked into the laundry room, the door pulled halfway closed behind me.
The baby was still on my chest, finally dozing off with little shuddering breaths.
I leaned back against the dryer and closed my eyes.
It was quieter here.
Not silent — the boys’ voices still carried faintly from the living room — but muffled.
Bearable.
I clutched the baby tighter, holding onto her like a lifeline.
And then it happened.
The tears came fast, hot and heavy, slipping down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Messy, silent sobs shook my body as I pressed my forehead against the cold wall.
There was no one here to see.
No one to tell me it was okay to not be okay.
I cried for the version of me who had dreams bigger than surviving the day.
I cried for the mornings that started before sunrise and the nights that never really ended.
I cried because even when I gave everything, it still felt like it was never enough.
And somewhere deep inside, a darker voice whispered something I hated —
Maybe I wasn’t enough.
I wiped my face with my sleeve, taking a shaky breath.
The tears slowed, but the ache stayed.
I kissed the baby’s soft head. "You’re okay. Mommy’s okay," I whispered, though neither of us fully believed it.
When I stepped back into the kitchen, the boys were still arguing over a toy.
The six-year-old spotted me first. His big brown eyes narrowed, picking up on the red around mine faster than any adult ever could.
"Mommy?" he asked gently. "Why are you sad?"
I smiled — that stitched-together smile made of guilt and love.
"I’m not sad, baby," I said, adjusting the baby on my hip. "Mommy’s just tired. That’s all."
He nodded, believing me because he trusted me.
Because in his world, Mommy was still the strongest person he knew.
And that realization nearly shattered me all over again.
The day spiraled from there.
More fights.
More spills.
Endless crying — some of it the baby's, some of it my own on the inside.
By the time my husband finally dragged himself out of bed, I was elbow-deep in dishes, the boys were screaming over a game, and the baby was teething in my arms.
He played on his phone for five minutes, scrolled, yawned, muttered something about work, and left.
No kiss goodbye.
No "thank you."
Just... gone.
And there I was, again.
Alone.
Holding all of it.
When he came home later that night, the kitchen was a mess, dinner half-cooked, the boys still half-wild.
He dropped his keys on the counter, surveyed the disaster, and frowned.
"You didn’t get the dishes done?" he said, disappointment dripping from every word.
Something inside me cracked — slow, silent, dangerous.
"You’re home late," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Yeah, well, someone’s gotta work," he snapped. "You wouldn’t understand. You stay home all day."
Stay home.
As if that was all it was.
"I know you work hard," I said, feeling the anger rise up, thick and hot. "I’m grateful. But just because you work outside doesn’t mean what I do isn’t work."
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off — for once, refusing to swallow my truth.
"I’m not just a mom. I’m supposed to be your wife, too. Your partner. I’m supposed to matter."
He stared at me, silent.
The baby whimpered in my arms.
The boys fought over a crayon behind me.
And in that moment, I realized how deeply lonely it was to have to fight to be seen by the one person who was supposed to love you most.
For a little while after that night, things were different.
He tried.
Half-heartedly.
Doing dishes here and there.
Playing with the boys for five distracted minutes.
Holding the baby once while scrolling through his messages.
I let myself believe it was a start.
That we were climbing out of whatever hole we had fallen into.
But old habits are heavy.
Hard to break.
The help dried up.
The attention faded.
And life slipped back into the old, familiar silence.
He still noticed only what I didn’t do.
Still only ever scolded the oldest, barely interacting with the others.
And I stayed.
Not because I was weak.
Not because I didn’t dream of more.
But because I was stuck.
Because I had no money of my own, no job, no family nearby.
Because three little faces looked up at me every day, needing me to keep their world safe.
Because leaving would mean tearing everything apart.
And I loved them too much to do that.
Even if it meant losing pieces of myself every day.
So I stayed.
And I survived.
And I learned how to live with a quiet kind of sadness that no one else even noticed.
But I noticed.
I always noticed.
