The first month was the hardest.
Leilei had thought labor was the ultimate test of endurance, but that had been a single night of pain. This — motherhood — was a relentless rhythm of sleeplessness, feedings, and the fragile heartbeat of a tiny life that depended on her for everything.
By the time she was discharged from the hospital, the world outside felt colder than she remembered. The air bit at her cheeks as Mei hailed a taxi, balancing the baby carrier in one arm.
"You're too thin," Mei said as they settled into the back seat. "You need more rest, more food. If you don't take care of yourself, you won't have the strength to take care of him."
Leilei smiled faintly. "I'll manage."
"That's not what I asked," Mei muttered, tightening the blanket around the baby. "You're supposed to say, 'Yes, Mei, I'll eat and sleep like a normal person.'"
The driver glanced at them in the rearview mirror, his eyes softening when they landed on the sleeping infant. "First child?" he asked.
Leilei nodded. "Yes."
"
Ah… I remember when my daughter was born. I was terrified I'd break her just by holding her." His laugh was warm, carrying the weight of years. "You'll learn quick. Babies teach you faster than any book."
Leilei thanked him, but she didn't say what she was thinking — that books and lessons meant nothing if you didn't have the luxury of stability. She was going home to a small apartment, a half-stocked fridge, and a stack of bills she hadn't yet figured out how to pay.
The first night back, the baby cried for hours. She tried rocking him, feeding him, changing him. Mei stayed until almost midnight, pacing the room with the baby in her arms while Leilei sat on the bed, half-dazed.
"He just needs time," Mei said, swaying slowly. "Everything's new for him. This light, this room, the smell of it… you're the only familiar thing here."
Leilei forced herself up and took the baby back. His little face was red from crying, but as soon as she held him close and whispered, "I'm here," the sound softened into hiccups.
That night, she didn't sleep more than an hour at a time.
Days blurred together. The small apartment was filled with the sounds of tiny cries, the soft rustle of blankets, and the faint scent of milk.
Mei came by when she could, bringing groceries and warm soup.
"You need protein," she'd say, setting down chicken broth with boiled eggs. "And don't tell me you're too tired to eat. I'll feed you myself if I have to."
Sometimes they'd talk about ordinary things — the weather, a new shop opening down the street. Other times, Mei would bring up the future.
"What's your plan?" she asked one afternoon, cradling the baby while Leilei drank her soup.
"My plan is to get through today," Leilei replied, her voice dry.
Mei frowned. "Leilei, I know you hate thinking ahead, but—"
"I can't," Leilei interrupted gently. "Not right now. If I think about the next month, the next year… it feels too big. I just need to make it through the night. Then tomorrow. One day at a time."
Mei didn't argue after that. She only nodded and kept rocking the baby.
In the quiet moments, when the baby slept and the apartment was still, Leilei found herself staring at him.
He had a small tuft of dark hair, soft and fine, and when he opened his eyes, she thought they looked like hers. His fingers were always moving — curling, stretching, gripping whatever they could find. Sometimes, when she placed her finger near his palm, he would latch onto it, and she'd feel the faintest tug.
It was strange, the way love and fear tangled inside her. She loved him with a depth that made her chest ache, but she also feared everything — the future, sickness, the world's cruelty.
Late one night, when he woke for a feeding, she whispered to him between yawns.
"You don't know it yet, but the world isn't fair. It's not gentle. People will look at you and judge you for things you can't control… the same way they did with me. But I'll do everything I can to protect you from that."
Her voice cracked, and she pressed a kiss to his tiny forehead.
It came on a morning when she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She was changing his diaper, muttering to herself about how someone so small could produce such chaos, when she glanced up and saw it — a faint curl of his lips.
It wasn't much, and she knew newborns didn't smile on purpose yet, but it still stopped her cold.
She laughed softly, tears prickling at her eyes. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
Mei came by that afternoon, and Leilei told her about it.
"They say it's just gas," Mei said, grinning. "But I think he knows. Babies always know more than we think."
By the end of the first month, she had learned things she hadn't known she could learn. She could tell the difference between his cries — hunger, discomfort, just wanting to be held. She could rock him to sleep in the dark without tripping over the chair by the bed.
The exhaustion was still there, deep in her bones, but it was different now. She was no longer afraid of breaking him. She was afraid of the world breaking them.
One evening, as the snow began to melt outside, Mei lingered by the door before leaving.
"You're stronger than you think," Mei said quietly.
Leilei shook her head. "I don't feel strong."
"That's the point," Mei replied. "Strength isn't about feeling it. It's about getting up and doing what you have to do, even when you'd rather lie down and disappear."
Leilei didn't answer, but after Mei left, she sat for a long time watching the baby sleep. His tiny chest rose and fell, his mouth twitching now and then in dreams.
She reached out, brushing her fingers along his cheek.
"One day," she whispered, "things will be better. I don't know how yet… but they will."
And in that quiet room, she let herself believe it.