I’m jealous of how quickly he slipped into sleep, when I’m wide awake and sleep still seems so far away. Moms in my online groups always grumbled about how they wished they could sleep the way dads do, and I never really understood what they meant.
This must be it. But he works so hard, he’s earned his rest.
I turn onto my side, facing him, and watch the firelight trace soft shapes across his face. Only, he doesn’t look as peaceful as I expected. His brow creases. His jaw tightens.
Then—
“No.”
It’s quiet, almost like a plea. It’s a word dragged up from somewhere deep, somewhere painful.
My entire body goes rigid.
His breathing stumbles to an uneven rhythm, then speeds up. I brace myself on my elbow as his hand curls in the sheet like he’s grasping for something. Or someone.
I don’t know what to do.
When Phoebe was small, she went through a phase of night terrors. Everything I read said not to wake them, as it could cause more problems than solutions.
But I can’t sit by and do nothing either. My heart feels like it’s breaking.
“Aiden,” I whisper, curling my hands into fists so I don’t touch him.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he turns his head in the opposite direction, like he’s hearing a voice meant only for him. This is progressing at an alarming rate: his breathing is too fast, too shallow. Jagged and uneven.
Screw the articles.
I shimmy across the distance between us, finding courage even though I’m terrified for him.
“Aiden,” I repeat, putting my hand on his chest. “Honey, you’re here. You’re safe.”
He lets out a small moan that tips me fully into a panic.
“Come back to me, Aiden. It’s not real,” I murmur, scooting closer and smoothing the hair from his forehead. “I’m here.”
His eyes fly open, unfocused and slightly feral.
He jerks upright, and I shift to give him space, worried I pushed him too hard. But I couldn’t take that look on his face, the physical sounds of his heartache.
I also can’t stop touching him, trying to anchor him to the present.
“You’re safe,” I repeat. “You’re home. I’ve got you.”
His breathing slows, and my words take their time to land. He doesn’t wince or brace when they do.
He won’t look at me immediately, and again I worry I’ve overstepped. I do that sometimes when I’m worried, or when my heart takes over.
But then he turns, his gaze heavy with the weight of his dream.
“I told you I move a lot.” His voice is rough. “I—sorry.”
He never thrashed, but that must be where it usually ends up. That makes my heart ache even more. I’d bet he doesn’t share this with Owen or Evelyn. He probably carries it alone.
I wish I didn’t understand why he feels like he needs to.
“Don’t apologize to me for that. Was it a bad dream?”
