Eventually, embarrassed and exhausted, I took a taxi home alone. The driver chatted softly, congratulated me, helped me carry the baby bag up the porch steps.
And then I saw the door.
The locks were different.
I blinked once. Then again. My brain felt slow, like it couldn’t catch up with what my eyes were telling it.
I tried my key.
It didn’t fit.
I knocked once, gently, like this had to be a mistake. Then again, harder. My legs trembled from the effort of standing. My body still felt foreign, heavy and sore and weak.
I heard footsteps inside.
Relief flooded me—until the deadbolt didn’t move.
Instead, Ray’s voice came through the door. Flat. Distant.
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