I heard him before I saw him. A thin, ragged whisper through the baby monitor, a child’s voice bargaining with exhaustion: “I won’t fall asleep this time.” For days I’d stepped over my son’s blanket nest under his baby sister’s crib, mistaking it for sweetness instead of a barricade. I didn’t know that while we blamed colic and new‑parent panic, someone we loved was carefully manufacturing every scream, every sleepless night, every frayed nerve, all in the name of being “realistic” about raising a child like our da… Continues…
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