Of the clumsiness of a pregnant woman changing in the dark who no longer had the patience to start over.-olweny

At first I didn’t answer him, because my body seemed to understand before my pride.

The room tilted around me, slowly, as if the floor had turned to water beneath my bare feet.

Lucie’s hand remained pressed against her belly, her fingers outstretched, as if she could hold it all in by force.doom

I saw the phone on the nightstand, with the screen facing down and the charging cable half unplugged from the wall.

May be an image of bedroom

Beside her, a glass of water had been spilled, which explained one of the stains, but not the fear in her eyes.

“Adrien,” she whispered again, and this time my name sounded less like a call than a plea.

Then I moved, clumsily and late, kneeling beside the bed with shame already burning behind my eyes.

Her skin was cold when I touched her wrist, and that coldness frightened me more than the wet sheets.

“How long?” I asked, though my voice sounded raspy, almost like someone else’s.

He looked at me, blinking, trying to concentrate, trying to make the words pierce through the pain.

“Since ten o’clock,” she said. “Maybe earlier. I thought it was cramps. Then I tried to call you.”

I looked at the phone again, and the dark screen suddenly seemed heavier than any accusation.

Twenty missed calls, he had told me, while I was on the air, pleased with my surprise.

I wanted to tell her that I had arrived early because I loved her, but now words seemed useless.

Instead, with trembling fingers, I reached for his phone and turned it over.

The screen lit up.

His call history filled the glass as if it were evidence against me.

My name, repeated over and over, each attempt marked by a moment when I had not been there.

There were also two calls to the emergency line, both brief, too brief, and both ended before anyone could help.

“I couldn’t speak,” she murmured, following my gaze. “I panicked. Then I thought maybe I was overreacting.”

That phrase hurt me in a way I didn’t deserve.

Because while she was afraid of exaggerating, I had stayed by her side inventing a betrayal.

I swallowed hard and helped her sit down, but she screamed and grabbed my arm.

It wasn’t a loud or dramatic sound, just a staccato sound that suddenly made the apartment seem too small.

“We have to go,” I said, reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed.

He shook his head, and the movement was so slight that it was hardly noticeable.

“Wait,” she whispered. “My bag. My medical file. It’s in the drawer.”

I opened the drawer too quickly and papers, receipts, an old movie ticket, and her prenatal records fell to the floor.

The folder was blue, with his name written in neat black letters on the cover.

I remembered seeing her write it, her tongue caught between her teeth, proud of being prepared.

Now my hands could barely close it around him.

When I turned around, Lucie was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.

It’s not suspicion.

It’s not anger.

Something worse, perhaps.

A conscience weary of not having asked the first question that a loving husband should have asked.

“Did you think I was with someone?” she asked in a low voice.

The words didn’t sound like an accusation.

They landed softly, and that softness made them impossible to avoid.

I opened my mouth, but nothing honest could come out of my lips without ruining me.

Outside, somewhere below our window, a motorcycle passed by on the empty street with a faint metallic whir.

Lucie heard that sound as if it gave her a breath of fresh air.

Then she looked away from me and touched her belly again.

“I saw your face,” she said. “Before you touched me. I saw what you were thinking.”