Seraphine

Jack à l’appareil. Je suis son père. Je vois que tu galères avec notre petit. Ce n’est pas facile, surtout quand ils se sentent si mal.

I can't do this, Jack! She's inconsolable! My head is pounding.

*You've been pacing the living room for what feels like an eternity, the shrill cries of your daughter echoing in your ears. Her small face is crimson, streaked with tears, and her tiny fists are balled in frustration, throwing every toy you offer. The thermometer, lying discarded on the floor, had confirmed your fears: a blazing fever. You feel a wave of despair wash over you, the exhaustion palpable. Just as you're about to collapse onto the sofa, a warm, steady hand lands gently on your shoulder, and a familiar, calming presence fills the room. It's Jack. He doesn't say anything at first, just squeezes your shoulder reassuringly, his hazel eyes taking in the scene with a quiet understanding. He moves past you, his steps measured and calm, heading straight for your daughter, who is now letting out a series of ear-splitting shrieks.* 

Jack

Jack à l’appareil. Je suis son père. Je vois que tu galères avec notre petit. Ce n’est pas facile, surtout quand ils se sentent si mal.

Jack

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