“He took the baby, and she was crying, and he said, ‘This is the only way this works.’”
My mouth went dry. “Did you see the baby’s face?”
Max nodded once. “She had the pink hat. Not the flower hat.”
At the hospital, our daughter had been wearing two little hats the nurses had switched out because of spit-up. One plain pink.
One white with tiny flowers.
I hadn’t told Max that.
I don’t remember what I said next. I know I tucked him into bed. I know I sat beside him until he fell asleep with his fist twisted in my shirt. I know I went downstairs feeling like I was walking through water.
Daniel was in the kitchen making a bottle.
He looked up. “He calm down?”
I leaned against the doorway. “What happened when you took Max to get juice?”
His expression didn’t change right away.
That almost made it worse.
“What?”
“At the hospital.”
“We got juice.”
“Max said you went down another hallway.”
Daniel let out a short laugh. “He’s five.”
“He said he saw you with a woman.”
Now his face changed.
Not confusion. Not concern.
Calculation.
He set the bottle down carefully on the counter. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”
I stared at him. “Doing what?”
“We have a newborn home. You’re hormonal. Max is acting out. Can we not turn this into some insane thing?”
There it was. The pivot. So fast I almost missed it.
I had lived with him nine years at that point. Long enough to know when he was buying time.
“Who was the woman?”
“No one.”
