You know when you hit that wall. Not exhaustion—that's a given. This is different. You're lying there, the baby finally quiet in the bassinet after three hours of screaming, the wife asleep next to you. And you just… watch her. Like an observational study. Her breathing is so even. (How does she do that?) You’re wired, of course. Adrenaline. Cortisol still pumping. But it’s more than that. It’s a lack of connection. A disconnect from… everything. Your body is physically there, but your mind is just floating, looking down. A detached observer. My father would call this weakness. From back home, this kind of introspection is indulgence. You provide. You endure. You move on. My mother would say I need more faith. But faith in what, exactly? That this relentless, soul-crushing fatigue is part of some divine plan? I just watch her sleep. I think about how she relies on me. How this whole family unit is my responsibility. And the feeling isn't love. (God, that sounds terrible.) It’s… a sort of resentment. A quiet, insidious bitterness that curls in your gut. Not for her, not really. For the situation. For the trap. Sometimes you just lie there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and you feel nothing. Not even the anger or the despair that were there hours ago. Just a profound, almost clinical emptiness. Like your emotional hard drive has been wiped. And you wonder if this is permanent. If this is just… who you are now. A functional automaton. (It's a form of anhedonia, right?) You just wait for the next cry. For the next shift. And the cycle repeats. Always.