A cry pierced the night. I jerked awake, blood pounding, adrenalin rushing through my veins. My eyes flew open, and a pale green glow cast shadows on the far wall. The cry rose in pitch; broke off; resumed, with added fury. A low moan of despair joined the sound, and I realized belatedly that it came from my own throat.
I clutched the covers to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it to be a bad dream, but the wail persisted until I could deny it no longer. I rose, movements jerky, as if guided by the shaky hands of an elderly puppeteer. I reached for him, my mind screaming at me to stop, to leave him, to climb back in bed and bury myself in the covers. But my heart said otherwise.
I cradled him to my chest. “One day,” I whispered, and even I could hear the wistful note, touched with a bit of madness, “one day, you will sleep. All. Night. Long. And that day, I will rejoice, as no other mother has before me.”
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