I’m sitting on the floor of the nursery and I can’t breathe because he’s breathing too loud. Or not loud enough. He’s three months old and he’s got this tiny, pathetic rattle in his chest—just a "common cold" according to the doctor who looked at me like I was some hysterical first-time dad. But I’m looking at his intercostal muscles. I’m looking for signs of tracheal tug. I’ve spent the last four hours reading up on infant pulmonary hypertension and sudden onset respiratory distress. I’m not being dramatic. I’m being PREPARED. Someone has to be. It’s always me. Always. I spent my twenties managing my mom’s medical power of attorney while my brothers were out "finding themselves" in Europe. I’m the one who handles the taxes, the one who knows where the circuit breaker is, the one who stays awake to make sure the world doesn't stop turning. My wife is in the other room, dead to the world. I actually feel a flicker of pure, concentrated RAGE that she can just... sleep. How do you sleep when there’s a biological machine in the next room that could just fail? How do you trust the air to stay in his lungs? I have this constant, vibrating pressure in my skull. It’s like a low-frequency hum. I did everything they said you’re supposed to do. I hit the milestones. I got the senior associate position. I bought the "safe" SUV with the highest crash ratings. I checked every box. And now I’m sitting in the dark at 3:14 AM, googling "aspiration pneumonia symptoms in neonates" because he made a clicking sound. I am losing my goddamn mind. I’m looking for some kind of diagnostic certainty that doesn't exist. I’m a high-functioning disaster. What happens if I just... stop? If I close my eyes for ten minutes? Does the universe just collapse? Because it feels like the only thing keeping that kid’s lungs moving is my eyes fixed on his ribcage. I feel like a sacrificial animal.