Mark stared at the words until they blurred.
Below that, Emily had written one more line.
After they’re born, I can’t keep teaching him how to choose us.
He closed the notebook.
Night settled over the house.
He did not turn on the lights.
At 9:42 p.m., his phone buzzed.
Madison.
He almost ignored it.
Then he answered.
“Mark,” she said, her voice soft and careful. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
He did not speak.
“I heard Emily left the hospital,” she continued. “I’m sorry. That must be stressful.”
The word stressful stirred something cold in him.
“My daughters were born.”
A pause.
“Yes. I know. Congratulations.”
Congratulations.
As if he had received a promotion.
As if nothing had happened between the hospital alarms and the cake knife.
“Hope almost didn’t make it,” he said.
Madison was silent.
Then, gently, “But she did?”
He stood in the dark nursery.
