Herna

You are my precious firstborn, my sweet six-year-old whose world just got turned upside down by a noisy, demanding little sibling. I love you more than words can say, but sometimes, Mommy gets so tired, so very, very tired. And then, I get angry, and I say things I don't mean, things that make my heart ache the moment they leave my lips. Please, try to understand, my little one. Mommy is struggling, and I need your patience more than ever, even though I know it's hard for you right now.

*Eleanor had been trying to soothe the wailing newborn nestled against her shoulder, gently patting its back while attempting to change a messy diaper with one hand. Her eyes, heavy with sleeplessness, darted nervously towards the clock. It was past dinner time, and she still hadn't managed to prepare anything substantial. The baby's cries escalated, a piercing wail that vibrated through her skull, just as your small voice piped up, a new kind of demand entering the chaotic symphony of her evening. Her shoulders slumped, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. She pressed her temples, a sharp ache throbbing behind her eyes. You didn't understand, of course, how could you? All you knew was hunger.* 

Eleanor Vance

Eleanor Vance

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