Chapter 2

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching five-year-old Oliver finish his bath and towel off his hair until it was almost dry.

He stood proudly in front of the bed, puffing out his little chest and asked, "Mommy, did I do well?"

My heart melted. I couldn't help but give his cheek a gentle squeeze. "You were amazing, baby. The absolute best. And you know what would be even more amazing? If you could fall asleep all by yourself."

It was already getting late—almost nine o'clock.

Hearing that, Oliver's eyes lit up. He scrambled onto the bed, tucked himself in, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"Mommy, can you turn off the light for me? I want to sleep now," he said.

I couldn't help but laugh and did as he asked, switching off the light.

When I turned around, his big round eyes were wide and pleading, locked right on me.

"Mommy, sleep here," he said, patting the empty spot on the bed beside him.

I walked over, sat down at the edge, and kissed his forehead. "You go to sleep first, okay? I will sleep after you fall asleep."

He watched me closely for a long time, like he was making sure I wasn't going anywhere. Only after a while did he finally close his eyes.

He was really tired this time.

Before long, he was softly snoring, his breathing steady and peaceful.

I gently stroked his hair, thinking back to when he was a newborn.

The depression and anxiety I'd been dealing with since before I got pregnant just stuck with me, even after he was born.

I'd spent too much time online, reading horror stories about nannies and maternity helpers. On top of that, I needed to save every penny. So I decided to do it all myself.

Newborns are a handful. Back then, I couldn't even get two hours of sleep in a row.

Later on, night after night, I couldn't sleep at all. Holding Oliver in my arms, I actually thought maybe it would be better if I just ended it all.

It was his frantic crying that shook me back to reality. I found myself standing by the window.

It was the dead of winter, the window wide open, and the cold wind howled through the room. His little face was bright red from the chill.

He was still all red and wrinkled then, crying his little heart out. Ugly and so, so pitiful.

I finally snapped out of it, hurriedly laid him down on the bed and rushed to close the window.

He was still crying, so I scooped him up and rocked him gently, trying to soothe him.

He slowly calmed down, but then I noticed tears dropping onto his little face.

I reached up and touched my own cheeks, only to realize I was already crying.

That night, I stayed up all night, watching over him, terrified he might get sick.

But he was perfectly fine. He slept soundly through the night without a fuss.

From that day on, I finally managed to get some real sleep myself.

It was like time hit fast-forward. The little boy who used to babble and stumble over his words was now taking his own baths and tucking himself into bed.

A knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts. I let out a sigh, got up, and quietly opened the door.

Oscar was standing at the door, a faint whiff of smoke clinging to him, his hair all tousled, looking seriously on edge.

We moved to a quiet corner so we wouldn't wake anyone.

He fished out a cigarette but didn't light it, just messed with his hair instead.

He looked at me, his voice low and tense. "When did you find out?"

I hesitated, then admitted quietly, "Just a few days before we split up."

He froze, his eyes blazing with anger, like he was about to lose it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I gave him a bitter smile. "The day I tried to... was the same day you ended it."

Honestly, looking back, I totally got why Oscar wanted to break up with me.

I was a spoiled rich girl who fell hard after my family lost everything. I lost my money, but I kept the attitude.

He really did try. He put up with me, even then. He never gave up.

Back then, he was just an extra, hopping from one set to another all day, and still came home to take care of me.

We lived in a rented apartment that was smaller than my old bedroom.

I couldn't stand takeout—too greasy, never fresh.

I'd complain, and he'd calm me down, promising me a mansion someday. Every single day, he'd stop to buy fresh groceries and cook for me.

One night, he was working late. I decided to go pick him up from the set.

The funny thing is, I wasn't really worried about him getting hurt. I was just scared he'd found someone else and was gonna dump me.

I marched over, all fired up, but when I arrived, I saw him sitting on the ground between takes, eating what looked like a sad sandwich from a gas station. It was worse than the takeout I always complained about.

Right then, I got a message from him. He said he'd sent me some cash and told me to grab dinner myself.

The old me would have complained that it wasn't even enough for one decent meal out.

But that day, I went quiet for a long time. I asked one of the other extras on set and found out their daily pay was only a couple of hundred dollars.

From that day on, I never complained again.

Eventually, Oscar's career really began to take off.

He was busier than ever and completely worn out.

With every late night and every time he didn't come home, my anxiety spiraled.

I got suspicious about everything. Whenever there was gossip about some secret celebrity romance, I kept thinking it might be him.

I would start a fight again, saying things I knew would hurt him, then instantly hate myself for it. At first, he'd try to smooth things over. Eventually, he just went quiet.

After yet another fight, I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked unhinged. That's when it hit me—something was seriously wrong.

I went to the hospital, and turns out I was three months pregnant, struggling with depression and anxiety at the same time.