Three weeks after giving birth, I stopped measuring my days in hours.
I measured them in forty-five-minute pieces.
Forty-five minutes was enough time to take what felt like a luxurious shower.
Forty-five minutes was enough to heat something, eat it while standing over the kitchen counter, and maybe remember to drink a glass of water.
Forty-five minutes was enough time to lie down and close my eyes without immediately waking in terror because I thought I had forgotten to feed my newborn.
My son, Theo, was healthy, beautiful, and apparently convinced sleep was an optional hobby.
He rarely stayed asleep for more than two hours at a time.
My husband, Daniel, worked fourteen-hour shifts at a distribution center across town. He left before sunrise and usually came home after eight at night, exhausted enough that sometimes we barely exchanged ten sentences before one of us fell asleep.
We had no grandparents nearby.
No nanny.
No sister dropping in to hold the baby while I showered.
Most days, it was just Theo and me in our second-floor apartment, trying to understand each other.
I loved my son with a kind of intensity I had never experienced before.
I was also so tired that one afternoon I cried because the microwave beeped while I was trying to get him to sleep.
That was the state of my life when Kevin, the man who lived directly above us, decided to make himself part of it.
Kevin was in his early thirties and introduced himself to everyone as a musician.
I never found out whether anyone actually paid him to make music.
For years, he had been annoying in the ordinary ways people can be annoying when you share a building.
He left wet clothes in the laundry machines for hours.
He smoked near the side entrance even though smoking there was prohibited.
Once, he practiced drums until almost eleven at night and only stopped after someone complained to management.
But after I brought Theo home, something about Kevin’s noise changed.
At first, I thought I was imagining the pattern.
Theo’s first reliable nap usually started around 10:15 in the morning.
One Tuesday, I spent nearly an hour feeding him, burping him, walking circles around the bedroom, and whispering nonsense into the top of his tiny head.
Finally, his eyelids fluttered shut.
I lowered him into the bassinet like I was defusing a bomb.
His breathing softened.
His fingers relaxed.
I stood over him for another full minute because I had learned that newborns had a cruel sense of humor about pretending to be asleep.
Then I slowly backed away.
The ceiling began vibrating.
At first, I froze.
Then the bass hit again.
Heavy.
Deep.
Loud enough that I could feel it through the floorboards and into my socks.
Theo’s eyes snapped open.
His little arms jerked outward.
Then he screamed.
I stared at the ceiling.
“No,” I whispered.
The music continued for twenty minutes.
I carried Theo around the apartment until my shoulders burned.
The next morning, 10:15 passed quietly.
I remember feeling embarrassed for having been so angry the day before.
Of course it had been a coincidence.
Then two o’clock came.
Theo had just fallen asleep when an acoustic drum kit exploded above my head.
The snare cracked through the ceiling.
Theo woke instantly.
The next day, it happened again.
Then again.
What made me uneasy was not simply that Kevin was loud.
Apartment neighbors are loud sometimes.
It was when he was loud.
Theo could spend an hour fussing while I walked him up and down the hall, and Kevin’s apartment would be silent.
But once Theo settled?
10:15.
Or 2:00.
Music.
Drums.
Bass.
Again and again.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
Sleep deprivation can do strange things to your brain. I knew that.
Every postpartum article I had read talked about exhaustion, hormones, forgetfulness, heightened emotions, crying without warning.
I had personally experienced all of those.
So instead of immediately accusing Kevin of anything, I started writing down the times.
Monday: 10:17 a.m. Bass.
Tuesday: 2:03 p.m. Drums.
Wednesday: 10:14 a.m. Music.
Thursday: 1:58 p.m. Drums.
Friday: 10:16 a.m. Music.
I stared at the notes on my phone.
The pattern was almost perfect.
That Friday, I finally went upstairs.
I had not showered.
My hair was twisted into a knot so tight I suspected it had become permanent.
Theo was strapped to my chest in a carrier because I did not trust myself to leave him downstairs alone, even for two minutes.
I knocked.
Kevin opened the door wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.
Music played somewhere behind him.
He looked down at Theo.
Then at me.
“What?”
I swallowed my irritation.
“Can you please turn the music down?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“It isn’t that loud.”
“It wakes him.”
Kevin looked at Theo again.
“Babies don’t like sleeping.”
“I know babies wake up,” I said. “But you’re playing music during his naps.”
His mouth twitched.
“I don’t know your baby’s nap schedule.”
“It happens at the same times every day.”
“So?”
“So I’m asking you, please, if you want to play music, could you avoid ten to eleven in the morning and around two in the afternoon?”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
“I clean at those times.”
I blinked.
“You clean with drums?”
He smiled.
“Sometimes.”
I stared at him.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I can’t clean without music.”
“Kevin, I am sleeping maybe ninety minutes at a time. I am not asking you to be silent all day.”
“I have a right to enjoy my apartment.”
“I am asking for two short windows.”
“And I’m telling you I pay rent too.”
Theo stirred against my chest.
Kevin’s gaze dropped to him.
Then he said, “Maybe he needs to get used to noise.”
I felt tears burn behind my eyes.
That made me angrier than anything else.
I hated crying in front of people who deserved anger.
“Please,” I said again.
Kevin’s smile widened.
“Sorry.”
He did not sound sorry.
The door closed.
Seconds later, the music got louder.
That night, I told Daniel.
We were eating reheated pasta while Theo slept beside the couch in a portable bassinet.
“Can you talk to Kevin?” I asked.
Daniel rubbed both eyes with one hand.
“About what?”
“The music.”
“He has always played music.”
“Not like this.”
Daniel took another bite.
“He’s quiet when I get home.”
“Because Theo doesn’t nap at eight o’clock at night.”
Daniel exhaled.
“What exactly do you want me to say?”
“Tell him to stop timing the noise around Theo’s naps.”
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Timing it?”
“Yes.”
“Clara, how would he even know when Theo sleeps?”
“I don’t know. The walls are thin. Maybe he hears us. Maybe he noticed the routine.”
Daniel sighed.
Something about that sigh went straight through me.
“Don’t.”
He frowned. “Don’t what?”
“Do that thing where you decide I’m exaggerating before I finish talking.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are.”
He placed his fork down.
“I’m just saying you’re exhausted.”
“I know I’m exhausted.”
“You are barely sleeping.”
“I know.”
“Stress can make things feel more intense.”
I stared at him.
“Are you saying I imagined the drums?”
“No.”
“The bass?”
“No.”
“Then what am I imagining?”
Daniel hesitated.
That hesitation hurt more than an answer would have.
“Maybe not imagining,” he said carefully. “Maybe connecting things because you’re stressed.”
“Connecting what?”
“The exact timing.”
I gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“So I’ve gone crazy?”
“That is not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean.”
“Clara, come on.”
Theo moved in the bassinet.
I lowered my voice immediately.
“I need you to believe me.”
Daniel’s expression softened.
“I believe that you hear him.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want you to stop acting like I’m crazy and delusional.”
