When You Finally Fell Asleep

You finally fell asleep—

after the stories,

the water,

the bathroom trip you insisted you didn’t need

until you did.

After the wrong pajamas,

the third request for one more kiss,

and the invisible monster under your bed

that I had to banish

with my softest voice

and my loudest courage.

Now, the room is quiet.

Your breath has found rhythm again.

And I sit,

on the edge of your little world,

wondering how someone so small

can fill a house

with so much noise

and so much meaning.

Your face has softened into sleep.

You are, once again,

the baby I first held

before life taught you

about questions and tantrums

and how to push every one of my buttons

before breakfast.

I should get up.

There are dishes.

Deadlines.

A part of me that still needs tending.

But I stay.

Because here, in this quiet—

I remember.

I remember why I chose this.

Why the chaos is worth it.

Why the love that exhausts me

is also the love that rebuilds me.

You are finally asleep.

And I am finally

just a parent,

staring at a miracle,

exhaling the day

in time with your dreams.