Rebecca had insisted on it.
Not because Ethan had ever been violent.
Because emotional chaos was still chaos, and a woman recovering from childbirth did not need to sleep inside it.
Madison’s parents had stocked the refrigerator.
There was soup, milk, cut fruit, coffee, and a lasagna covered in foil with her mother’s handwriting on the top.
Madison stood in the living room holding Noah and felt quiet for the first time in months.
Eight hundred miles away, Ethan’s vacation was already falling apart.
Lorraine kept posting photographs with forced smiles.
Ethan kept checking his phone.
No one in Madison’s family answered him.
The hospital would not confirm anything.
His mother said Madison was being dramatic.
His father said pregnant women got emotional.
Ethan said less and less.
His flight home landed just after four.
By early evening, he pulled into the driveway and found the house exactly where he had left it.
