My mom sent a text saying, “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned around and took my baby back home. Two weeks later, when they found out we spent Thanksgiving at a private lodge with friends who flew us out, my mom’s first message was, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I got angry and replied.

The real ending was a Tuesday morning in late spring when I got sick.

Not hospital-sick. Just regular human sick—fever, chills, the kind of exhaustion that makes even breathing feel like work.

Maisie was fussy. I was alone. Evan was out of town for two days.

Old Jenna would’ve powered through, because that’s what I did. Prove I didn’t need anyone. Don’t ask. Don’t be “dramatic.”

New Jenna did something else.

I called my dad.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I’m sick. Can you come?”

Silence for half a second—then action.

“I’m on my way,” Dad said. No questions. No guilt. No “why didn’t you plan better.”

He drove up the same day and walked into my apartment with a grocery bag and a calm face. He took one look at me and said, “Go lie down.”