"I have two kids now. Just two beautiful boys—one-week-old twins," I said, looking down at them with a tired smile, my arms aching from their combined weight. The nursery was warm, filled with the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the faint scent of baby powder, fresh linens, and that unmistakable new-milk tang.
My youngest, Elias, was nestled against my chest, his tiny fist clutching my shirt, while his brother, Theo, dozed in the crook of my elbow, his breaths a fragile puff against my skin—both still so small, their skin translucent and veined, eyes barely opening to the world after just seven days.
"Honestly, I love them, but they make me feel like a cow."
I sighed deeply, shifting Elias to ease the pull in my shoulders and the tender ache from round-the-clock nursing. Milk stains dotted my oversized shirt, a badge of the endless feeds since their dramatic arrival. "Fine, they're babies. Of course they need milk. That part makes sense."
