Tilly’s cries echoed through the house, high-pitched and urgent. Anna stood frozen in the doorway, frustration burning beneath her skin. It had been a long day—work had gone wrong, the dishes were still piled in the sink, and now Tilly, her two-year-old, was throwing her third tantrum in an hour.
Anna squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, fighting the urge to yell. Instead, she dropped to her knees beside her daughter, who was now lying on the carpet, tiny fists pounding the floor.
“Tilly, sweetheart,” Anna said softly, “I know you’re upset.”
Tilly didn’t respond, just cried louder. Anna took a deep breath, scooped her up gently, and rocked her back and forth. Her own heart ached with guilt—not because she had done anything wrong, but because she had come close to losing her patience.
“I’m sorry I got angry,” Anna whispered. “Mommy’s just really tired.”
Slowly, Tilly’s sobs quieted. Her little head rested against Anna’s shoulder, damp with tears. In the stillness that followed, Anna remembered the promise she had made to herself: to be firm, but never frightening; to discipline with calm, not with harm.
Parenthood, she knew, wasn’t about being perfect. It was about trying again—every moment, every day.
