The small rented house smelled faintly of fresh soap and clean fabric when we finally stepped inside. My arms ached from holding the baby, my body still tender from labor, but my heart lifted as I noticed everything had been tidied, arranged with care.
"Welcome home," said Jovery, my mother-in-law, her voice warmer than I had expected. She stood by the doorway, a proud smile softening her features. "I wanted the place to be ready for you and the baby."
I blinked back tears, overwhelmed. "Thank you, Ma," I whispered, setting my bag down. Noah followed, carrying the remaining bundle of clothes and baby things. For a brief moment, the tension that had long lived between me and the family eased.
The baby stirred in my arms, small whimpers escaping her lips. I sat down quickly, arranging the blanket as I prepared to feed her. My body screamed for rest, my eyelids heavy as stone, but hunger came when it came—whether morning or midnight.
Noah rubbed the back of his neck. "You should rest first. Maybe—"
"There's no maybe," I interrupted softly, shifting the baby into position. "She needs me. Imagine how hard it is to be so small, so helpless. If I'm tired, then I'm tired—but she comes first."
Jovery's eyes softened, though she said nothing more. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing soup, while Noah slumped into the chair beside me, exhausted but silent.
---
+ Days of Hunger and Obligation+
Days melted into nights, and nights blurred into days. I woke whenever the baby cried, breasts sore, body aching, mind constantly balancing exhaustion and alertness. I loved her—every tiny sigh, every twitch of her fingers—but love did not erase the weight of obligation.
I often found myself staring at Noah, wondering when he would step more firmly into his role. I knew he tried, but opportunities were scarce, and money even scarcer. His uncle would sometimes hand us a pack of milk when our supplies ran out, but it was never enough. One pack vanished quickly, swallowed by the baby's hunger.
One evening, as I rocked the baby to sleep, I whispered to Noah, "Why does it feel like I'm the only one carrying this? Aren't you supposed to be the father? Why do I feel so… alone in providing?"
He looked down, guilt etched in his face. "I want to do more," he said. "But every door feels closed. Just give me time."
Time. Always time. But time didn't feed a child.
---
+ A Friend's Helping Hand+
It was during one of my lowest weeks that Allen appeared, like an unexpected light. She was not my sister by blood, but she had always been like one to me—someone who saw me without judgment, who understood without long explanations.
One afternoon, she came to visit, bringing a small bag of food and baby clothes. "You look worn out, Noira," she said gently, sitting beside me. "You can't keep going like this, depending on scraps. You need something stable."
I sighed, bouncing the baby lightly. "And where will that come from? Every time I try to think of work, I feel guilty leaving her. Every time I look at Noah, I feel guilty for resenting him."
Allen leaned closer. "Listen. I can help you. In the city, there's a company hiring. I applied there with a few classmates. You could come too. I'll lend you what you need for travel and requirements. You don't have to pay me back right away."
My eyes widened. "Allen… that's too much. I can't take advantage of you."
"You're not," she said firmly. "You're trying to survive. Let me do this. For you. For the baby."
Tears welled in my eyes. "Thank you. I don't know how to repay you."
"Raise your child well. That's repayment enough," she said with a small smile.
---
+A New Chapter: Work+
Weeks later, with Allen's help, I found myself in another city, nerves twisting inside me as I stepped through the company's doors. My body still carried the marks of recent motherhood—aching, tender, unsure—but necessity drove me forward.
I had been hired as an assistant inventorist. The work was new, unfamiliar, but not impossible. I counted, checked, organized, making sure every item was in its place. My superior, a man named Thirdy, introduced himself on my first day.
"You can call me Sir Thirdy," he said, offering his hand.
I hesitated, shaking it lightly. "Thank you, sir."
He chuckled. "None of that. Just call me brother. We're all family here."
His kindness surprised me. In a world where authority often came with harshness, his casual warmth was a balm. He guided me patiently, explaining procedures, correcting gently when I erred.
"Don't rush yourself," he told me once as I fumbled with the inventory sheets. "Better slow and correct than fast and wrong. You'll get used to it."
I smiled faintly, grateful. "I'll do my best, Brother."
---
+Balancing Two Worlds+
But work came with its own sacrifices. Each day I left for the city, my heart tugged painfully at the thought of my baby at home. I trusted Noah, but doubt always lingered. Would he remember the feeding schedule? Would he notice her cries the way I did?
Some nights, when I returned late and exhausted, I found her asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling peacefully. I would kneel beside her, pressing my lips against her forehead, whispering, "I'm sorry, love. Mama is trying."
Allen often stayed by my side during those days, reminding me to eat, helping me fill out forms, lending me fare when money ran short. "You're stronger than you think," she told me once as we rode the bus together, city lights flickering past the windows.
"Strong doesn't mean unbreakable," I murmured.
She squeezed my hand. "No. But it means you keep going, even when you want to stop."
---
+ The Quiet Realization+
Weeks turned into months, and slowly, I grew into this new rhythm: mother, worker, wife. The exhaustion never left, but pride flickered in my chest every payday when I bought milk or diapers with money I earned myself.
One evening, as I placed a fresh pack of milk on the counter, Noah looked at me, shame and admiration mixing in his eyes. "You're doing so much, Noira. More than me. I don't know how to thank you."
I looked at him, my voice steady. "Don't thank me. Stand with me. That's all I ask."
He nodded, but whether he truly understood, I did not know.
---
And so, the cycle of endurance continued. My days were no longer the peaceful dream I once envisioned, but they were real, raw, and undeniably mine. I was not just a dreamer anymore—I was a mother, a fighter, a provider. And though the burden felt heavier than I ever imagined, I carried it, step by step, with the quiet hope that one day, it might all be worth it.