By the fifth consecutive morning, the pattern was clear and undeniable.
One morning, as I bent over her bed and whispered good morning, her little body stiffened before I even touched her.
When Michael’s footsteps echoed in the aisle, her crying escalated into a sharp scream that pulled my chest from the inside.
Michael mumbled at the door. Oh, my God. Why are you doing this every morning?
I said trying to pin my voice. She’s a kid. The kids are crying.
Reply coldly. Not all children are this dramatic. Maybe you’re doing something wrong.
Those same words were instilled in a deep interior.
I’ve already been doubting myself since I’ve been back to work, and I wonder if distracting me would hurt something fundamental between me and my daughter.
Margaret, on the other hand, seemed able to calm Olivia easily throughout the day.
Whenever I called to rest assured, I could hear Margaret’s quiet voice in the background singing gently, and Olivia looked static and satisfied.
Then the evening comes, and the tension comes back creeping.
One night, when he tried,
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