The smell of garlic and onions wafted through the tiny apartment, clinging to the curtains like a stubborn guest who refused to leave. Twenty-two-year-old Olivia Parker stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, sweat glistening on her forehead as steam rose from a pot of pasta.
Balanced on her left hip was her three-month-old son, Ethan, who was making it absolutely clear to the universe that he was not impressed with tonight's dinner—or with life in general. His little fists flailed, his mouth opened wide, and his cries echoed through the small space like a fire alarm.
"Ethan, sweetheart, please," Olivia begged, bouncing him gently while trying to stir the sauce. "Just five more minutes. Mommy promises this won't burn, and then we'll both survive another day."
Of course, Ethan wasn't interested in promises. His wails grew louder, as if protesting her multitasking skills. Olivia sighed, feeling every ounce of her exhaustion settle into her bones. Twenty-two and already she felt like she was living three lives at once: chef, nanny, and janitor—all without pay.
She tried to blow a lock of hair out of her face, but it stuck stubbornly to her cheek. "I should've just ordered takeout," she muttered, fumbling to adjust Ethan higher on her hip. The spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering noisily onto the counter. Ethan paused his crying for half a second, startled by the sound, and Olivia took the opportunity to kiss his chubby cheek.
"See? Mommy's got this. No tears necessary," she cooed, though her eyes darted nervously back to the pot. The sauce was bubbling dangerously, threatening to spill over. With a quick movement, she reached for the handle—only for the pot lid to slip and crash to the floor.
Ethan immediately started crying again, louder than before. Olivia groaned, crouching awkwardly to retrieve the lid while still holding him. "This is my life now," she muttered under her breath. "One hand for the baby, one hand for disaster."
The apartment wasn't helping either. It was small, just two cramped rooms with paper-thin walls. The kitchen doubled as a dining room, and the dining room doubled as storage for baby gear. Bottles, pacifiers, and stacks of diapers cluttered every available surface. The living room was home to a secondhand couch and a pile of laundry she swore had been reproducing on its own.
Still, Olivia had learned to laugh at the chaos—or at least fake a laugh when she was too tired to mean it.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the chopping board with a sharp rattle. She reached out and snatched it up, pressing it to her ear.
"Liv, tell me you're not crying again," came the voice of her best friend, Chloe, warm and teasing.
"Not yet," Olivia replied dryly, shifting Ethan as he clung to her shirt. "But if this pasta doesn't behave, I might join Ethan and make it a duet."
Chloe burst out laughing. "Girl, only you would compare your life to a Broadway tragedy. What's he doing now?"
"He's… uh… auditioning for the role of Most Dramatic Infant Alive. Nonstop crying, complete with arm flailing and spit bubbles. Honestly, I think he'll get the part."
Ethan hiccupped, as if proving her point. Olivia shook her head and leaned against the counter.
"I told you," Chloe said between giggles. "Babies come with two moods: crying and plotting their next crying session."
"Comforting," Olivia muttered. "Remind me again why people think this is the most magical stage of motherhood?"
"Because they forgot," Chloe replied smartly. "You know how women block out the pain of childbirth? Same thing. Selective amnesia. Otherwise, the human race would've stopped centuries ago."
Olivia couldn't help laughing, the sound lightening her chest. That was Chloe—always knowing exactly how to make her smile when things felt too heavy.
"Anyway," Chloe continued, "what are you cooking? Or should I ask what you're trying not to burn?"
"Pasta," Olivia said, twisting the spoon in the sauce again. "Which should be the easiest meal in the world. But apparently, with a three-month-old, boiling water is a life-threatening challenge."
"Don't tell me you're still refusing to order takeout. Liv, you live in New York City. There are literally a thousand restaurants within walking distance."
Olivia sighed. "Takeout means spending money, and money means… well, money I don't have. I already splurged on diapers this week, remember?"
Chloe grew quiet for a second. Then, softer: "You're doing amazing, you know that, right?"
Olivia swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking quickly. "Don't get me emotional, Chloe. Ethan already does that enough."
"Okay, okay, no tears. But hey, you need a break. This weekend, let me come over and babysit. You can have a night out. Go to a bar, meet someone—"
Olivia cut her off with a snort. "Oh yeah, because single moms with spaghetti stains on their shirts are just swarmed with eligible bachelors."
"You never know," Chloe teased. "Some men like spaghetti."
Olivia rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "Sure. If that's the case, I'm a five-course meal."
They both laughed, the sound filling the tiny kitchen until even Ethan seemed to calm, his cries subsiding into soft whimpers. Olivia kissed his forehead, feeling his tiny body relax against her.
Chloe's voice softened again. "I mean it, Liv. You're twenty-two, not eighty-two. You deserve love, fun, laughter—all of it. Don't lock yourself away just because life threw you a curveball."
Olivia didn't answer right away. She stirred the sauce, staring at the bubbling red surface as if it held the answers to everything she wasn't ready to face.
"I'll think about it," she finally said.
"That's all I ask." Chloe's tone turned playful again. "Now, feed that baby, feed yourself, and remember: pasta is only dangerous if you let it win."
Olivia laughed. "Thanks, Chloe."
When she hung up, the apartment felt a little less heavy, the noise a little less sharp. She held Ethan closer, whispering softly, "It's just you and me, buddy. But maybe… maybe not forever."
Ethan blinked up at her with those wide, curious eyes, and for a brief moment, Olivia let herself believe Chloe might be right.