Author's note: Because even "naturals" have rough days.

"It's raining out and Angela's crying again," Tim said on his way upstairs.

"Yes, Timothy, I can hear her." Shelagh had only just set her down, seizing the opportunity of having both hands free to search the cupboards for something for dinner. She'd eaten next to nothing since breakfast, only a few bites of a cheese sandwich and a biscuit with her tea, but it seemed she wasn't going to get anything now, not when Angela demanded her attention. She picked up the infant from the nearby Moses basket and began to rock her.

The day had not begun well. Shelagh had woken up late with a terrible crick in her neck, having fallen asleep in the early dawn on the sitting room sofa, Angela still cradled in her arms. She and Patrick passed the baby back and forth as they each rushed to get ready, bolted down breakfast and got Timothy up and moving for church.

Angela, usually so quiet and drowsy on Sunday mornings, had whimpered through most of the service, working herself up to a full-blown wail right in the middle of the sermon. Shelagh had spent the rest of the service in the hall, trying to soothe her.

She'd gotten a brief respite during the drive home – the hum of the Austin's motor never failed to settle her daughter. But then, just as they'd walked in the door, Patrick was called out to an accident at docks. Shelagh was left alone with a fussy baby, a hungry 11-year-old and an untidy house.

Tim had tried to make Angela smile with funny faces while Shelagh made lunch, but once his sister's crying started up full-force again, he took his sandwich and disappeared with his Spitfire into the garden.

Shelagh hadn't been able to leave the baby for more than five minutes since then. She couldn't figure out what was wrong. Angela had been fed and changed and should have gone down for a nap more than an hour ago, but no matter how much she rocked her or what lullabies she sang, Shelagh couldn't get her to sleep. As soon as she'd set the child in her Moses basket, her eyes would snap open and she'd start crying again, not stopping until Shelagh had picked her up. Even now, as she cradled her on the sofa, her cries only settled into whimpers and she squirmed slightly in her mother's arms.

Shelagh closed her eyes, reciting her way through familiar prayers, as she used to do during her more stressful days as a midwife – days when the births were long and the clinic was crowded and it seemed she would never sleep. Back then, she'd prayed and reminded herself that mothers were the ones that really mattered; whatever she did, the mothers were the real heroes.

She was a mother now. Shelagh opened her eyes, looked down at her daughter and felt love fill and warm her.

But she also felt tired and hungry and her head was pounding. And when she thought about the cluttered sitting room and the messy kitchen – breakfast pans and Angela's bottles still in the sink – not to mention the laundry that awaited her tomorrow, she wanted to cry along with her daughter.

She blinked back her tears and shifted Angela so the baby's head rested nearer her shoulder. "What's wrong, dearest? Hmm?"

She'd never been this fussy before. Was it colic, perhaps? She felt slightly warm. What if she was getting ill? She didn't seem ill – she was eating fine – but perhaps she should get Patrick to check her when he got home. Where was he? Surely the accident at the docks hadn't taken that long. Shelagh was used to him rushing out on a call at a moment's notice, but she'd never felt his absence as keenly as she had over these past weeks since Angela had arrived.

The doorbell rang and Shelagh groaned. Lord, grant me patience – of all the days to have unexpected guests!

"Timothy?" she called upstairs as she tried to straighten up the sitting room with one hand. After a few moments, her stepson clamored down the stairs.

"Could you answer the door please? And if it's Colin or Jack, please ask if you can go over to theirs to play. I'm still trying to get your sister to nap," she said, shifting the whimpering infant to her other arm.

Tim shrugged and went into the hallway. He returned a few moments later, along with Sister Julienne.

"Sister?" The nuns and nurses usually called before visiting. Why – oh no. The Christmas pageant. Last week, she'd agreed to help with the planning and was supposed to meet with the vicar, Chummy and Sister Winifred at Nonnatus this afternoon. She'd completely forgotten.

The elder nun smiled kindly at her. "Good afternoon, Shelagh, and how is the little one?"

"A bit fussy, just now, I'm afraid. Sister, I'm so sorry. The planning for the pageant, I completely forgot, I don't know why –"

Sister Julienne held up a hand to stop her. "It is perfectly fine, my dear, everyone will understand. I merely came by to make sure you were all right. It's not like you to miss appointments without a reason. And it looks like you've got quite a good one." She ran a finger down the baby's reddened cheek. "Someone's not too happy, are they?"

"I'm sure she'll settle in a moment. Please, have a seat," she said. "Timothy, you could you fetch Sister Julienne a cup of tea?"

Tim frowned. "Um, I don't think there are any clean cups and the sink's full of Angela's bottles and stuff."

Shelagh's face flamed. She'd always prided herself on keeping a neat and comfortable home, and yet she couldn't even muster up a clean teacup for the sister.

"I'm not in need of tea, thank you," Sister Julienne said. "But perhaps, Timothy, you might help me out for a bit this afternoon and give your mother a chance to rest for a while?"

"Sister, you don't have to –"

"Shelagh." The nun rested a hand on her knee. "There is no shame in asking for help. You know as well as I do the first few weeks with a newborn can be difficult."

"I know, Sister. I've spoken with mothers, I've taken care of babies, I just –" She paused and looked into her daughter's face, scrunched up with tears for reasons she couldn't fathom. "I love her –"

"But you're tired, and so is she. We all have bad days, even those of us who are naturals." She smiled so gently and without judgment that Shelagh felt the tension start to drain from her body.

"Timothy, why don't you start on the washing up while I see what I can do to calm your sister?" Sister Julienne held out her arms for the child.

Shelagh hesitated. "You're sure you're not too busy –"

"No," Sister Julienne said. "Never too busy to help a friend."

Shelagh gently transferred Angela to the nun's arms. The child wriggled and cried louder at first, but then settled as Sister Julienne began to rock her. Shelagh blinked back exhausted but grateful tears. "Thank you."

"Go upstairs and rest my dear," the Sister said. "All will be well here."