Her contractions stopped, and the doctors allowed her to return home under strict instructions to rest.
I took unpaid leave.
For the first time in years, I let a bill wait.
I cooked badly. I cleaned slowly. I learned how to arrange six pillows around Emily’s body so she could sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.
Some nights, guilt kept me awake.
Emily would find me sitting beside the crib we had not finished assembling.
“You saved us,” she told me once.
“I should have saved you sooner.”
“You came home,” she whispered. “And when you finally saw the truth, you chose us.”
Three weeks later, during a thunderstorm over Chicago, Emily’s water broke.
Our son arrived after eleven hours of labor.
He was small, furious, and perfect.
When the nurse placed him against Emily’s chest, his crying stopped.
I touched one finger to his tiny hand.
