Every morning, Olivia cried the moment my husband, Michael, came into the room. Not normal baby fussing—something sharper. Panicked. Desperate. The kind of cry that makes your chest tighten because it doesn’t sound like discomfort. It sounds like fear.
The first time, I told myself it was coincidence.
The second time, I blamed myself.
By the fifth morning, I couldn’t ignore the pattern.
Michael didn’t help. He grew colder, more impatient, and somehow made it feel like it was my fault.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered one morning. “Why does she do this every time I walk in?”
“She’s a baby,” I said carefully. “Babies cry.”
“Other babies aren’t this dramatic,” he snapped. “Maybe you’re doing something wrong.”
