I watched him leave and thought about how low my standards had fallen inside my marriage that basic decency now felt extraordinary.
The next morning, Jack came in carrying roses.
Red roses. Twelve of them. Wrapped in cellophane from the hospital gift shop, the price sticker still clinging to the bottom corner.
I looked at the flowers, then at him.
He looked destroyed. His eyes were swollen. His suit from yesterday was wrinkled beyond saving. His tie was gone. He smelled faintly of coffee and fear.
“Emily,” he said. “I heard he was born.”
I was sitting up with Noah asleep against my chest. My body ached everywhere. My hair was tangled. My lips were cracked. I had never felt less beautiful or more powerful.
“Yes,” I said. “He was.”
Jack took one step closer.
“Can I see him?”
“No.”
The word came out before guilt could interfere.
His face crumpled.
“Please. I know I messed up. I know it looks terrible.”
“Looks?”
He swallowed.
“I panicked. Lauren was having contractions. She was threatening me. She said if I left her, she’d come after my job, my reputation. She said—”
“She said jump, and you asked how high.”
His mouth closed.
The door opened before he could answer.
A doctor stepped in. Not the young resident from the night before, but Dr. Andrew Harrison, the attending obstetrician who had supervised both admissions. He was in his fifties, serious, with wire-rimmed glasses and the careful posture of a man who had delivered bad news often enough not to decorate it.
“Mrs. Carter,” he said. “Mr. Carter. I need to clarify a matter from yesterday.”
Jack straightened instantly.
