Nolan was sitting, leaning against the headboard, with a laptop on his knees. On the screen — several male faces in small windows.

In his hand was a glass of cola, and on the dresser a lavender stick was smoldering, filling the room with that sharp smell. He was laughing.

“The best decision was to move them out, — he said, raising his glass. — Finally I can sleep properly and function.”

They applauded. Someone joked about a “dad hack.”

I stood in the darkness, pressing my palm against the wall so I wouldn’t stagger. So it wasn’t about my “sleep talking.” Not about his exhaustion. He simply needed a room without us.

I quietly returned to the guest room. Rowan was sleeping, his tiny arms spread out. I looked at him and suddenly felt not tears, but clarity.

In the morning, I didn’t make a scene. I ordered a small camera and installed it on the shelf in our bedroom.

For seven nights in a row, I recorded his toasts, his jokes about “living on vacation,” his certainty that he deserved rest more than we did.

On Saturday, during dinner with the parents, I turned on the TV. After the photos of our son, the videos began.

The laughter disappeared. The room fell silent.

Nolan turned pale.

And for the first time in a month, I felt well-rested.