I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough for the silence to become its own living thing.
Then I heard myself ask, “Whose baby is in my nursery?”
He swallowed. “Her name is Ava.”
My voice rose. “Whose. Baby.”
He stared at the desk. “Mine. And Nicole’s.”
Nicole.
I knew the name before he said anything else. A woman from his office. Pretty in a soft, expensive way. The kind of woman men call easy to talk to when what they mean is willing to flatter them.
I almost sat down, but there was nowhere to sit that didn’t feel filthy.
“You had an affair.”
“Yes.”
“And brought the baby here.”
“Yes.”
“While I was in labor?”
He closed his eyes. “Nicole gave birth three days before you.”
I made a sound that didn’t feel human.
He kept talking, maybe because if he stopped, he would have had to hear himself.
“Our baby didn’t make it.”
I stared at him.
He said it again, slower this time, as if I were stupid. “Our daughter was stillborn.”
I shook my head immediately. Hard. Violently. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, because I held her.”
He said nothing.
And then I knew.
