When the front door shut, the baby kicked again.
“I know,” I whispered.
That night, I slept on the couch because the stairs were too much.
Marcus couldn’t find his school folder. Phoebe cried over a broken toy. Elliot spilled milk. Mary quietly packed lunches without being asked.
Margot brought me a blanket and pretended not to notice I hadn’t moved in a long time.
Around midnight, she stood in the doorway wearing her father’s old sweatshirt.
“Is Dad coming back?” she asked.
“I think your father is confused,” I said gently.
She held my gaze. “That’s not what I asked.”
No… it wasn’t.
Two days later, he appeared all over social media with Brielle—a young fitness influencer my daughters admired.
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