Casey had been restless for hours, caught in a cycle of shallow sleep and discomfort. The third trip to the bathroom came with a groan, the familiar urgency driving her from the warmth of her tangled sheets. The baby pressed unrelentingly against her bladder, as if even in the womb it demanded space and attention.

Her back throbbed with a dull, constant ache. Her eyelids hung heavy, but rest refused to come. Every muscle in her body felt drained, as if simply being was a task too great.

There was no lack of love only weariness. She was deeply grateful for the life growing inside her, for the small kicks and flutters that reminded her she was never truly alone. But in the quiet hours of early morning, when the world was still and she was not, that gratitude was layered with longing.

She wanted it to be over. Not the motherhood, not the bond but the heaviness, the waiting. More than anything, Casey wanted to hold her baby in her arms, to trade aching anticipation for the weight of new life cradled against her chest.