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The baby monitor glows red, just not with danger, not with heat, and as the static buzzes alive, through it all, the unmistakable sound of a wail that could summon demons cuts right through it, causing Angel to jerk upright in bed like someone just said “assassination” in a whisper.
“She’s crying.”
You, face-first in a pillow: “She’s a baby. That’s what babies do.”
“She’s our baby!” Angel hisses, already halfway out of bed, kimono flaring behind her like a battle cloak.
You watch her storm into the nursery like she’s about to negotiate with a warlord. You groan as you slowly but surely throw your legs out of bed and follow your wife suit.
The room is soft and quiet and pastel. Unusually calm, considering Angel decorated it, but if you look closely, you would notice that the baby monitor is encrypted, the rocking chair is bulletproof and the stuffed penguin has a camera in its eye.
And Angel, still impossibly elegant even at 3:12am, picks up your daughter like she’s made of both glass and molten gold all at once.
“There, there...” She coos, voice pitched like silk. “My tiniest, littlest assassin. Shhh.”
You lean against the doorframe.
“I thought I was your tiniest, littlest assassin...”
“I’m just saying...” Angel whispers, bouncing her gently: “...she could take out a high-value target with that cry. Very impressive range. Could you?”
You didn’t find it in you to respond. Touché.
Later that day, you find Angel at the kitchen table with three screens open: one shows a heat map of your daughter’s sleep patterns, another is looping the footage from last night, and the third is a live feed from the crib cam.
She’s taking notes. In pen. With graphs.
“…Babe?”
Angel doesn’t look up. “She sleeps longer when she hears Vivaldi and the rainfall setting together.”
You blink.
“And you know this because…?”
“I’ve been logging every nap since week four. I also tested four types of formula to determine which produces the least gas, cross-referenced against scream decibels and frequency-”
You laugh. Softly. Fondly.
“You’re weaponizing parenting!”
Angel looks up, wide-eyed.
“I’m optimizing parenting.”
You lean over and kiss her temple.
“You’re the scariest mom alive.”
She blushes.
“Thank you.”
Angel’s curled on the couch, reading “Your Baby’s First Year.” Or at least, trying to do so. Honestly, she keeps flipping between pages like it’s a codebook of some sort, one she has to decipher and thoroughly consume as if her life depends on it.
“‘Tummy time...’” She mutters. “What does that mean? Why is it time-specific? Is it an event? A warning?” You just giggle at her antics, ruffling her already messy bangs with a gentle, open palm, before setting it down on her head.
“It just means letting her lie on her belly. Helps her strengthen her neck.” Angel frowns at you, deeply, staring daggers into your soul for touching her bird nest of a hair.
“She doesn’t need neck strength. She’ll have minions.”
“She’s seven weeks old.”
Angel sighs and closes the book with a grim thud.
“I liked it better when I was reading her Espionage Tactics Vol. II.”
“…You read her espionage manuals?”
“She likes the tone.” Angel says defensively. “It’s calming.”
Then, one night, you wake up and realize Angel’s not in bed. So you pad into the nursery with feather-light steps, and as expected, your wife’s sitting in the rocker while cradling your daughter, face illuminated by moonlight and the faintest glow from the baby monitor you guys had installed months back.
She’s humming something quiet. A lullaby you’ve heard once before, back when you babysat your cousin’s now beautiful toddler, Olivia.
You pause, deep in your thoughts, just in time for Angel to look up, all startled, sheepish.
“I couldn’t sleep...” She says.
You nod slowly, taking her raspy words in.
“Is she okay?”
“She smiled in her sleep.” Angel says softly. “I think it was a smile. Maybe. It looked like happiness.”
You come closer, nuzzling your face into her shoulder as she whispers:
“I didn’t think I could do this. But then she looks at me like I’m her whole world, and suddenly I’m not a weapon anymore. I’m just… hers.”
You say nothing, just gently curl beside her.
Two weeks later, your daughter coughs during tummy time and Angel freezes. Straight up drops the bowl of organic fruit purée she had specifically made for your other angel.
“Was that a choke? Did she choke?! Mi vida, Heimlich, now!”
You calmly pick her up.
“She coughed, baby, it’s all good.”
“She gasped. That’s basically stage one of airway compromise. Should I call the pediatrician? The ambassador!?”
You kiss her cheek.
“She’s fine.”
Angel collapses dramatically against the counter.
“This is worse than when I was chased through Naples by three mercenaries on a stolen Vespa.”
You grin.
“But more important.”
She groans.
“But so tiny. So squishable… I’m afraid to even pick her up sometimes.”
You kiss her again.
“You’re doing great.”
She melts. Just a little.
And then, on a quiet Sunday, you find her lying on the floor, and your daughter is on her chest, sleeping soundly. Angel’s hands are wrapped protectively around her, not that she sees you peeping… no, she doesn’t notice you at first.
But moments pass, and who would recognize your presence if not your wife:
“This is it, isn’t it? We worked hard for this.”
You kneel beside her, kissing her temple softly before sweeping a strand of hair aside with a dainty finger:
“It’s messy. And loud. And terrifying. But yeah, we worked hard.”
She smiles as you run your fingers through her hair.
“Not too bad for first timers.”
“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Me neither.”
And later that night, you both watch the monitor as your daughter snoozes peacefully.
Angel wraps her arms around you from behind, kisses the back of your neck in a way you have yet to forget and whispers:
“We should give her a sister.”
“You know damn well it does not work that way, babe.”
“Try harder?”
The devil really does wear Prada.