Time seemed to stop.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable.
Finally I heard my own voice asking,
“Whose baby is in my nursery?”
He swallowed.
“Her name is Ava.”
I raised my voice.
“Whose. Baby.”
He refused to meet my eyes.
“Mine. And Nicole’s.”
The name hit me immediately.
Nicole.
A woman from his office.
Beautiful in a polished, effortless sort of way.
The kind of woman people describe as “easy to talk to” when they really mean she makes certain men feel admired.
My knees nearly gave out.
There wasn’t a single place to sit that didn’t suddenly feel contaminated.
“You had an affair.”
“Yes.”
“And you brought the baby here.”
“While I was in labor?”
He closed his eyes.
“Nicole gave birth three days before you.”
A sound escaped my throat that I barely recognized.
Daniel kept speaking, almost mechanically, as though stopping would force him to hear the horror of his own confession.
“Our baby didn’t make it.”
Then he repeated it, more slowly.
“Our daughter was stillborn.”
I immediately shook my head.
Hard.
Again and again.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, because I held her.”
He stayed silent.
My memories of the hospital suddenly became scattered pieces.
Pain medication.
Bleeding.
Machines beeping.
Exhaustion so complete that hours blended together.
I remembered someone placing a baby against my chest.
I remembered Daniel crying.
I remembered feeling too weak to lift my head properly.
I remembered thinking she felt strangely cold.
I remembered nurses taking her away quickly, explaining they needed to examine her.
I remembered Daniel whispering,
“She’s okay. Rest.”
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