Raising two children on her own was a mountain Naledi hadn't expected to climb so soon—or alone. Every day was a blur of diapers, tears, and the aching silence of loneliness. Tiana, her newborn daughter, was beautiful, delicate, and relentless. She wouldn't sleep unless cradled in Naledi's arms. She fussed through the night and clung to her mother like a lifeline. Naledi hadn't had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep since the day Tiana was born.
Her body felt like it was shutting down. Her bones ached. Her mind swam in a fog of exhaustion. The baby cried. The dishes piled up. The laundry never ended.
Sometimes, when it was too much to bear, Lincoln, her seven-year-old son, would help. He'd pick up Tiana and rock her gently, whispering sweet things in her ear. He was far too young to shoulder the weight of responsibility, but he did it anyway, because he loved his mother and his baby sister.
One afternoon, Naledi dozed off on the couch, lulled by the rare moment of quiet. Lincoln was holding Tiana, singing softly. That's when Shawn walked in.
His face twisted into disbelief. "Is he taking care of the baby now?" he snapped.
Naledi sat up, groggy. "She was fed. He's just helping."
"You're letting a child parent your child," he said, arms crossed.
That was it. She was done playing nice. "Oh, you mean you're helping? Because I haven't seen you do a damn thing!"
Shawn's idea of fixing things was bringing in his mother, Margaret.
From the moment she stepped in, the air grew heavier. Margaret walked around the house like an inspector, commenting under her breath about the mess, the noise, the lack of routine. It made Naledi feel smaller and smaller, like a child being scolded.
One day, Margaret insisted that she take over so Naledi could rest. "You need sleep," she said. "Let me take care of Tiana for a while."
Desperate, Naledi agreed. She stumbled into bed, letting the weight of weeks drag her into sleep.
She awoke to screaming.
Tiana was wailing—screaming in that panicked, hoarse cry that pierced the air. Naledi ran to the living room and found no one. She followed the cries outside.
Margaret was in the backyard, sipping wine with two of her friends, laughing.
Tiana was inside, alone in her carrier.
Naledi's hands trembled as she picked up her baby. "How could you leave her?"
Margaret looked up, startled. "I was just stepping outside for a bit—"
"Get out!" Naledi yelled, clutching her daughter to her chest. "If you don't leave this second, I'm calling the police."
Margaret's face flushed with embarrassment and rage, but she saw Naledi's fire. She backed down, muttering under her breath, and left.
Of course, she called Shawn, twisting the story to make herself the victim.
Shawn showed up two days later. The house was a mess—crumbs on the counter, dishes stacked high, toys everywhere. Tiana was crying, and Lincoln was in the kitchen trying to make a sandwich.
"This is unacceptable," Shawn barked. "Look at this place. You're letting Lincoln fend for himself now?"
Naledi turned slowly, eyes tired, voice cold. "I taught him how to make a sandwich so he doesn't go to school hungry when I can't get out of bed."
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "You're neglecting him."
That was the last straw.
"I'm neglecting him?" she said, voice rising. "I'm keeping this house running, caring for both kids alone. You pop in and out like a guest, but I'm the one failing them?"
They screamed at each other until Lincoln covered his ears in the next room.
"You haven't changed at all," she said finally, tears streaking her cheeks. "Your life went on like nothing happened. You get sleep. You get breaks. You get freedom. I got left behind."
Shawn left that night, angry and wounded, and moved into his mother's house.
Naledi cried herself to sleep with Tiana in her arms. Her chest ached—not just from fatigue, but from the deep grief of being unseen, unheard, unsupported.
Lincoln, quiet and wise beyond his years, had heard everything. He picked up the phone and called his other grandmother, Alice, Shawn's late wife's mother.
Alice wasn't exactly fond of Naledi, and the feeling was mutual. But she showed up.
When she saw the state of things, her jaw tightened. She didn't scold or offer pity. She picked up a mop, started a load of laundry, and rocked Tiana to sleep while Naledi took a long shower.
Later, she brought Naledi a mug of tea and sat across from her silently.
"I'm drowning," Naledi whispered.
Alice nodded slowly. "I know."
They weren't friends, but they understood each other. And that was enough.
Alice stayed for a while, helping with the baby, the house, and Lincoln. She didn't ask questions or give unsolicited advice. She just… helped. It gave Naledi the space she needed to breathe again.
She made an appointment with a psychiatrist. It was time to face the truth—she was battling postpartum depression, and she couldn't do it alone.
She started therapy. Slowly, things got better.
She did it for her children—especially Lincoln, who had been her silent protector, and Tiana, who clung to her like she was the only safe place in the world.
And in some quiet, surprising way, she started to feel grateful for Alice. She showed up when no one else did.
Three months passed. Shawn was gone the entire time, claiming he needed space. The tension in the house vanished in his absence. The air was lighter. The kids smiled more. Naledi laughed again, even if only sometimes.
Then one evening, everything shattered.
Alice called Shawn. "Tiana's in the hospital," she said, her voice trembling. "Margaret was watching her."
Shawn came home the next day, but things were already different.
Too much had changed.