Adrian’s POV
Sophie’s in the shower when Amelia starts crying. It’s her first real shower in days, she'd said, something longer than five desperate minutes. I'm alone with my daughter and determined to handle it, to prove I'm capable.
Amelia's face scrunches, turns red. The crying starts low and builds rapidly into full-throated screaming that drills into my skull.
I pick her up, support her head the way I've been taught. Rock her gently. The crying intensifies.
Maybe she's hungry. I prepare a bottle with hands that shake slightly from the noise. Test the temperature on my wrist—perfect. Offer it to her mouth.
She turns her head away, screaming louder.
Diaper then. I lay her on the changing table, check—clean. Changed it twenty minutes ago.
The crying continues, relentless. My chest tightens. I try bouncing her gently while walking circuits around the living room. Nothing. Try the white noise machine. Nothing.
Sing—badly, desperately—the lullaby Sophie uses. Amelia's screams could shatter glass.
"Come on." My voice is pleading now. "Please. Just tell me what you need."
But she can't tell me. She's three months old and I'm the adult who's supposed to understand her non-verbal cues, supposed to have some instinct that translates crying into actionable solutions.
I have nothing. Just mounting panic and the crushing awareness that I'm failing at the most basic requirement of fatherhood.
The bathroom door opens. Sophie emerges in a towel, hair dripping, expression shifting from confusion to concern to action in seconds.
"What's wrong?" She's already crossing to me, arms extended.
"I don't know. She won't stop… I've tried everything."
Sophie takes Amelia from my arms without asking. The moment my daughter settles against her mother's chest, the crying stops.
Not gradually, not with gentle soothing that takes minutes to work.
Immediately. Completely. Like a switch flipped.
Sophie adjusts her hold, makes soft shushing sounds, rocks with a rhythm I can't seem to replicate. Amelia's face relaxes, her body melting into Sophie's with total trust.
The silence is deafening.
"How…" My voice comes out strangled. "I tried that. I tried exactly that."
Sophie doesn't look at me. Just keeps swaying with Amelia, her expression unreadable. "Sometimes babies just need their mother."
The words shouldn't sting. They're probably true. But they land like accusation anyway—another confirmation that I'm fundamentally inadequate, that Sophie possesses something I simply lack.
Some maternal instinct or connection I can't manufacture through effort alone.
I watch them together and feel like an intruder witnessing something I'll never be part of.
Throughout the rest of the day, I try. Keep trying. Determined to prove last night wasn't just physical release but actual reconnection we can build on.
But reality refuses to cooperate.
I watch Sophie and Bellamy move around each other in the kitchen while preparing Amelia's afternoon bottle.
Their communication is effortless, natural—Bellamy opens the cabinet for clean bottles before Sophie reaches for it, hands her the formula without being asked, adjusts the water temperature based on some signal I didn't catch.
They don't even need to speak to operate with practiced partnership that makes my attempts at helping look clumsy by comparison.
"Thanks." Sophie's smile for Bellamy is easy, genuine. The kind she used to give me before exhaustion and resentment carved channels between us.
Bellamy says something quiet I don't catch. Sophie laughs and swats his arm playfully.
The casual touch makes my jaw clench. I tell myself it's nothing: professional rapport, two people who've spent months working together developing shorthand.
But it doesn't feel like nothing. It feels like I'm watching my family form around me while I stand on the outside looking in.
"Adrian?" Sophie's voice pulls me back. "Can you grab more diapers from the nursery?"
I nod, grateful for a task. Retreat to the nursery and lean against the changing table, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
That evening, I volunteer for bath time. Determined to prove I can handle basic childcare without supervision.
Sophie hesitates. "Are you sure? I can…"
"I've got it." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "I can bathe my own daughter, Sophie."
She holds my gaze for a beat too long, then nods. "Call if you need anything."
I only need to prove I'm capable.
The bath starts well enough. I fill the infant tub with water, test the temperature carefully. Undress Amelia with deliberate slowness, supporting her head, lowering her into the water inch by inch the way I've watched Sophie do it.
Amelia seems content. Kicks her little legs, making tiny splashes. I allow myself a moment of hope—maybe I can do this.
I reach for the baby soap, squeeze some into my palm. Support Amelia's head with one hand while washing her with the other. My angles are awkward but I'm managing.
Then she squirms. Just a small movement, but sudden. My hand slips.
Soapy water splashes directly into her eyes.
Amelia's face scrunches. For one horrible second there's silence.
Then she screams.
Not the fussy crying from earlier. This is pain, fear, betrayal all wrapped in sound that makes my blood run cold.
"Shit! No, no—" I try to rinse her eyes but my hands are shaking, clumsy. The water keeps hitting her face wrong. She's screaming louder, thrashing in the small tub, and I'm terrified I'm going to drop her.
Sophie bursts through the door.
She doesn't ask what happened. Just moves with swift efficiency, scooping Amelia from the water and carrying her to the sink. Turns on the tap, adjusts the temperature, rinses our daughter's eyes with gentle competence while making soothing sounds.
Amelia's screams gradually subside into hiccupping sobs. Sophie wraps her in a towel, holds her close, rocks her with practiced ease.
I stand frozen beside the abandoned bath, water dripping from my arms, watching the aftermath of my failure.
"What happened?" Sophie's voice is carefully controlled.
"I was washing her and she moved and the soap—" I sound defensive even to my own ears. "I had it handled."
Sophie's eyes meet mine over Amelia's damp head.
"Clearly."
One word. Single syllable dripping with sarcasm that cuts deeper than any accusation could. All her frustration, her disappointment, her exhaustion with my incompetence distilled into six letters.
I open my mouth to defend myself—it was an accident, these things happen…
But Sophie has already turned away. Carries Amelia out of the bathroom without looking back, leaving me alone with cooling bathwater and the wreckage of whatever hope I'd been clinging to.
I drain the tub with hands that won't stop shaking. Wipe down the surfaces. Put away the baby soap I'll probably never be trusted to use again.
In the living room, I hear Sophie's voice—soft, soothing, talking to Amelia with patience she no longer extends to me. Then Bellamy's lower rumble, saying something that makes Sophie laugh despite everything.
I lean against the bathroom sink and stare at my reflection, try to recognize the man looking back.
Last night I'd felt connected to Sophie in ways that transcended all our failures. Believed we could rebuild from physical intimacy, use our bodies' memory of each other as foundation for fixing everything else broken between us.
But one night of good sex can't erase weeks of failure. Can't bridge the fundamental gap between who I am and who my family needs me to be.
Sophie has something I lack. Some instinct or connection or simple competence I can't manufacture no matter how hard I try.
And Bellamy—Bellamy just shows up. Day after day. Steady and capable and everything I keep failing to be.
The fragile peace we constructed last night fractures completely under the weight of my inadequacy.
I can't do this. Can't be the father Amelia deserves or the partner Sophie needs.
And pretending otherwise just hurts them more.