Chapter 3

When we got home, I found the nursery had been emptied.

The crib, the clothes, the bottles—everything packed into cardboard boxes and stacked against the wall.

Ethan came in behind me. "I didn't want you seeing all of it. I put things away."

"Where's the ultrasound photo?"

He hesitated. "Megan took it to check the gestational age."

I turned to face him. "That was the only picture of the baby."

"Once this is all sorted out, I'll get it back."

"And if the result isn't what you're hoping for?"

Ethan was quiet.

"Keeping it would only make you feel worse."

There were still adhesive marks on the wall where the decorations had been. So even the right to grieve my child had to wait until he confirmed the bloodline.

He stayed home with me for two days. Cooked during the day, held a warm compress to my belly at night. When I couldn't eat, he'd reheat the food and try again. If I woke in pain, the bedside lamp would click on and he'd already be walking in from the living room.

"Hurting again?"

I nodded.

Ethan let me lean against his shoulder, his palm flat against my lower belly. After a while, he said, "The doctor says the report will take a bit longer."

I closed my eyes and nearly asked him—could you please just set the report aside for now?

Just one sentence. "I believe you." That would have been enough.

The next morning, I found a hand-drawn chart on the dining table.

It listed the first day of my last period, his travel and overtime schedule, and every prenatal appointment. A red line circled four days. On two of those days, he hadn't been home.

I carried the chart into the kitchen.

Ethan was turning off the stove.

"You made this?"

He glanced at it. His hand slowed as he ladled the soup. "No matter how I calculate it, I'm off by a few days."

"So?"

"Tell me the exact date."

"I already told you—you can't calculate gestational age that way."

"Then explain it to me again."

He set down the ladle.

"Claire, I've been losing my mind too. You could clear this up in one sentence. Why do you have to fight me on this?"

"I said the baby is yours. Doesn't that count as one sentence?"

"I need a date."

"I don't remember exactly when it happened. We were together several times that month."

I tore the paper in half.

Ethan bent to pick up the pieces. His voice dropped. "The more you act like this, the harder it is for me to believe you."

"I've already told you. The baby is yours."

"But the report is right here."

"If you've got the report, why are you still asking me?"

He went still.

I pulled free of his hand and threw the torn paper into the trash.

The doorbell rang.

Megan stood outside holding a document envelope. She reached into the lower shelf of the shoe cabinet and pulled out a pair of gray slippers with the ease of someone who'd done it before.

I had never seen those slippers.

I looked at her. "Yours?"

Megan's hand paused, then she stepped into them.

"I came by to drop off paperwork while you were in the hospital. Ethan could hardly let me walk around barefoot."

Ethan came out of the kitchen. "Give me the documents and go."

"I just got off a night shift. Haven't even had a sip of water. You two are fighting and somehow that's my problem?"

She bent down and fished out the torn half of the date chart from the trash.

"What's the point of calculating this? Just wait for the results."

I snatched it back. "Who told you to touch that?"

Megan straightened up.

"Claire, why are you taking this out on me? I didn't write the report, and I'm not the one who got pregnant."

"Then why is my ultrasound photo in your hands?"

"Ethan couldn't read it. I took a look for him."

"If he can't read it, he can ask the OB."

"Neither of you will budge. What am I supposed to do, sit back and watch this family fall apart?"

She pulled the ultrasound photo from the envelope. The corner had been creased, leaving a white line.

I took it from her and carefully smoothed it flat.

Megan watched me. "Claire, Ethan has bent over backward for you. Any other man, seeing a report like that—would he have even bothered taking care of you through the discharge?"

"Should I be thanking him?"

"Do you have to treat everyone like the enemy?"

"Megan!"

Ethan pulled the envelope out of her hands.

"That's enough."

She laughed. "Every time. You ask me to come, and the second something goes wrong, you tell me I talk too much."

I looked at Ethan.

"You asked her to come?"

"I asked her to bring the report."

"You couldn't have sent it by phone?"

"Paper is clearer."

Megan picked up her bag. "Fine. I'm leaving. If Ethan can put up with even this, I don't know why I bother."

After the door closed, I took the ultrasound photo and slipped it into my wallet. Then I pulled out the printed divorce agreement.

Ethan flipped through two pages and closed it. "The results aren't in yet."

"This has nothing to do with the results."

"It does for me."

"If the baby is yours, what are you going to do?"

He looked at me. "I'll apologize. However you want me to make it up to you."

"And if it's not?"

"Tell me who it is, and we put this behind us."

I laughed.

Ethan's frown deepened. "I've already given this much ground. What more do you want?"

"Sign."

"Absolutely not."

He locked the agreement in the drawer. "Until your body has recovered, I'm not discussing divorce."

"Give me the key."

"Claire, stop this."

I grabbed a glass and hurled it at the drawer. It shattered across the floor. The drawer didn't open.

Ethan lifted me away from the broken glass. I clawed at his arm, leaving streaks of blood. He didn't let go.

"You can hit me. Curse at me. Anything. Just let your body heal first."