I thought back to three years ago, when I moved here to live with them.
Aria was nearing her due date. She'd called me sobbing. "Mom, my mother-in-law claims her back hurts and can't help during the confinement period. The baby is coming—can you please come help me?"
My husband had passed years ago. Aria was my entire world. Hearing her so isolated tore me apart.
I'd just finished processing my retirement. My own back—a severe lumbar strain—was flaring badly. The doctor had ordered strict rest.
But my daughter needed me. How could I refuse?
I bought the earliest overnight train ticket and rushed to her side.
That first month, I survived on three or four hours of sleep. Whenever the baby cried, I carried her to the living room, terrified of disturbing Aria and Jonathan's rest. I'd pace the floor until dawn.
By the time the baby slept, the sun was rising. Then came groceries and breakfast.
The days blurred into an endless cycle—housework, diapers, feedings, soothing a crying infant.
For an entire month, I didn't get a single night of uninterrupted sleep. My back pain was so excruciating I could barely stand straight.
But for my daughter's sake, I gritted my teeth and endured.