I’m already swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress before my eyes fully open, feet hitting the cold linoleum. The space heater in the corner rattles weakly, doing its best against the February chill seeping through the single-glazed windows.

The flat is tiny. A studio with a makeshift nursery corner I created by pushing the sofa against the wall and wedging a second-hand Moses basket between the coffee table and the radiator. Every inch of it screams temporary. But temporary is all I can afford.

I scoop Elodie into my arms before the crying escalates, cradling her against my chest as I sink back onto the edge of the bed. She’s so small. Six weeks old and still barely filling my palms. Her tiny face scrunches, rooting for food, and I feel the familiar ache settle into my bones—the exhaustion so deep it’s become a permanent weight.

I don’t bother turning on the lamp. Moonlight filters through the curtainless window, painting silver streaks across the threadbare carpet. It’s enough.

You can do this, I tell myself, guiding her towards my breast. Just one more hour. One more morning. One more day.

The landlord’s eviction notice sits on the kitchen counter, buried under a pile of unopened bills. I haven’t told anyone. There’s no one to tell.