The profound, bone-deep exhaustion of new motherhood was a country for which no map existed. Eleanor learned its topography one sleepless night, one frantic latching, one wave of inexplicable tears at a time. It was a landscape of staggering joy and abyssal fatigue, often within the same breath. Her body, once her own, was now a territory shared, its rhythms dictated by the demanding, tiny sovereign in the bassinet.
Dominic watched this transformation with a kind of reverent terror. He saw the shadows like bruises under her eyes, the way her hands sometimes trembled as she lifted a cup of tea. He saw the fleeting panic when Rowan cried and her milk let down in a sudden, soaking rush. This was a battle fought not on cliffs or in boardrooms, but in the quiet, lamplit hours of 3 a.m., a war
