One night, after finally getting Tommy to drift off following an especially rough evening, the yelling started again—louder than usual.
I stormed downstairs, still in my robe, my hair a mess, ready to unleash every ounce of the fury that had been building for weeks. But when I got there, I froze.
They were sitting together on the couch, completely calm, like nothing had ever happened—watching television with bowls of popcorn, the picture of serenity.
“Hey,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “Just so you know, the baby’s finally sleeping.”
Mr. Anderson didn’t even turn to look at me. “What’s your point?” he muttered, irritation dripping from every word.
“My point,” I said, tightening my grip on the railing, “is that your shouting keeps waking him up. He needs rest.”
Mrs. Anderson rolled her eyes, her attention still half on the television. “Oh, please. Babies need to get used to noise. When Adam was a baby, he could sleep through anything.”
I felt my stomach twist in frustration. “Maybe so,” I said carefully, “but Tommy isn’t Adam. He needs quiet right now.”
Continue reading…
