Motherhood
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At three in the morning, two wide-awake babies and one exhausted mother prove that motherhood does not care what the clock says.
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The compass has not changed, but the road home has been bent, leaving a mother to wait while every room still points toward her boys.
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She scrubs, folds, and prepares every room as though order could bargain with the universe for the footsteps she is waiting to hear.
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When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
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Two babies somehow create enough laundry for a village, leaving one tired mother at the base of a mountain made entirely of tiny clothes.
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The house is a mess because people live here—laundry multiplies, toys migrate, dishes wait, and love takes up space.
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Laundry, made beds, stocked cupboards, and careful little chores become a countdown to the sound of her boys coming home.
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At four in the morning, the babies sleep, the house belongs to silence, and Honey kneads the weight of the night out of a tired lap.
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Once the babies finally sleep, Honey claims the quiet hours, curling close as though she has been waiting for exhaustion to make room for her.
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At 12:10 p.m., one sleepy child opens her eyes and morning finally begins on her own stubborn schedule.
