His hands started shaking before he finished the second page.
He called her.
Voicemail.
He called again.
Voicemail.
On the third call, Madison answered from the townhouse while Noah slept against her shoulder.
“What the hell is going on?” Ethan shouted.
His voice bounced through the quiet room.
Madison looked down at the baby blanket under her hand.
“I’m doing what you told me.”
There was a pause.
“What?”
“You said I was on my own.”
Noah stirred, and Madison adjusted the edge of the blanket.
“So I handled everything on my own.”
For the first time in years, Ethan had no sentence ready.
His voice cracked when he finally said her name.
Madison ended the call.
Not because she hated him.
Because there was nothing left to explain to a man who needed documents to understand abandonment.
The weeks after that were not cinematic.
They were feedings, diapers, pediatrician visits, cold coffee, sore stitches, and learning how to sleep in pieces.
