When we first brought Micah home from the hospital, I thought I’d have to teach my husband, Diego, how to juggle loving a newborn and dealing with our old cat, Zorro. I figured the baby would take over our lives, and Zorro would get pushed to the background. Turns out, I had it completely backwards.
Diego just… has this way of making everyone feel like they’re his favorite. I’d come into the office and find him with Micah cradled in one arm, Zorro curled up in the other, and both of them looking at him like he hung the moon. He talks to Zorro like he’s a person, and he talks to Micah like he’s already got things figured out, never baby-talking or making either one feel less important.
Some days I’d feel guilty—like I was always choosing one over the other, or like I could never give enough of myself to both. But then I’d watch Diego, patient and soft, giving the same kind of gentle love to the cat as he does to our son. No picking favorites, no dividing up attention—just this calm, steady love that seems to grow the more he gives.
It hit me one evening, while I watched him. I had just finished putting Micah to bed, and I was tidying up the living room when I saw Diego sitting on the couch. Zorro was sprawled across his lap, purring contentedly, while Diego absentmindedly scratched behind his ears. He was talking softly to the cat, his voice low and comforting. At the same time, Micah’s soft, sleepy breaths echoed from the nursery, and the room felt full of this quiet warmth. It was as if he had found a way to make room for both of them, in his own way, without ever feeling like he was dividing his love.
It’s a strange thing, watching your partner be a parent. There are moments when you feel so deeply proud of the way they step into this role, and then there are moments when you feel a little bit unsure of your own footing. I thought I would be the one who would have to balance our new baby and our old pet. But Diego had found a way to balance the love he had for both without even trying.
One night, after Micah had fallen asleep, I finally asked him, “How do you do it?”
Diego looked at me, confused. “Do what?”
“Juggle everything,” I said, settling next to him on the couch. “Micah, Zorro, me. How do you do it? I feel like I’m always running out of energy or time for one of you.”
He smiled, his eyes soft and understanding. “You don’t have to do it all yourself, you know. You don’t have to choose one over the other.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “I don’t divide my love for them, and I don’t think you should, either. Micah doesn’t need to be your whole world. And Zorro doesn’t need to be left behind just because he’s been around longer. They both need different things, but they both need you.”
I stared at him, surprised at the wisdom in his words. He was right. I had been so focused on feeling like I couldn’t give enough of myself to both my son and our cat that I had forgotten how much room there could be for both of them in my heart. I had been trying to keep everything balanced in a way that felt unnatural, and in doing so, I had been neglecting the simple fact that love doesn’t have to be divided. There’s enough to go around if you let it grow.
It wasn’t the first time Diego had taught me something like this. He had this incredible way of making people feel like they were the center of his universe, and he did it with such quiet ease that it almost seemed like magic. I had always been more of a “one thing at a time” person, always focusing on one problem or one person at a time. But Diego? He could divide his attention between work, family, and everything in between, and still make everyone feel like they mattered. And I was starting to see that maybe I had been doing it all wrong.
As I began to shift my perspective, I noticed small moments that made me realize just how right Diego was. Zorro, despite being our grumpy, old cat, had taken to following Micah around. Not in any menacing way—more like a quiet guardian. I’d find him sitting beside Micah’s crib during nap time, or even just watching over him while Diego held him. I could see the way Zorro looked at Micah—no longer just a baby in the house—but a little person he was learning to share his world with. And Micah, for his part, would reach out his tiny hands when Zorro was nearby, his giggles filling the air as the cat would just sit there, patient and unbothered.
And as for me? I started to realize how much more I could give to both of them. I didn’t have to feel guilty anymore. I could give myself freely to both Micah and Zorro, just like Diego did, without feeling like I had to choose. When I was with Micah, I could be fully present, and when I was with Zorro, I could enjoy the quiet companionship that had always been there. It wasn’t about dividing myself; it was about expanding myself to make room for both.
But then came a twist I hadn’t expected.
One day, Diego came home looking different. There was something in his eyes, something distant. He set down his briefcase and stood there for a moment, like he was sorting through his thoughts. I knew something was off, so I asked him about it.
“I had a call today,” he said, rubbing his temple. “A work thing. There’s been some restructuring. They’re offering me a promotion.”
I blinked, taken aback. Diego had been content with where he was in his job, never really one for career climbing. “That’s great, right?”
He nodded, but there was no excitement in his voice. “It is. But it means more hours. More travel. It means I won’t be around as much.”
I felt my heart tighten. More hours, more travel? I had just started to get used to having him here more often. The thought of him being gone more was unsettling, and suddenly, all the things I had been learning from him—how to balance everything—felt like they might slip away.
“I don’t want to make it harder for you,” I said, my voice quiet. “I know how much you care about work, and I don’t want to be selfish, but… I don’t want to lose the way we’re doing things now.”
Diego’s face softened, and he stepped closer to me, pulling me into a hug. “Hey, listen, we’ll figure this out. I’ll make sure we have time for each other, for Micah, for Zorro. You’re right, we’re doing something good here. I don’t want to mess that up either.”
The next few days were full of discussions and planning. We both agreed that the job offer was an opportunity Diego couldn’t pass up, but we also made a pact to maintain the balance we had built, to not let the chaos of work take over our personal lives. Diego agreed to reduce his travel days and dedicate his off-time to us—our family, our home, and our furry friend.
In the end, the situation turned out to be one of those karmic lessons I hadn’t expected. By trying to balance his career with his family, Diego was teaching me even more about prioritizing what really matters. It wasn’t just about dividing time or love—it was about making intentional choices to ensure that no one felt less important, even when life got busy.
We ended up finding a way to have both—his new job and our family life—without sacrificing one for the other. And through it all, I saw just how resilient love could be. The lesson? Love doesn’t need to be divided. It multiplies, expands, and grows when we choose to prioritize the things that truly matter.
So, to anyone out there struggling with balance—remember that there’s always room for everyone you love. You don’t have to divide your heart or your time; just let it grow. And if you find yourself in a situation where things seem impossible, take a step back, make a plan, and trust that everything will work out.
If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need the reminder that love always finds a way.
