Everything was still moving, but he was stopped, trapped between what had happened and what he still didn’t know how to face.
He thought of Margaret, of her rigidity, of her way of following every instruction to the letter, never deviating from what was established.
And then he thought of Emily.
In how she had hummed softly, as if the world could be reduced to that simple moment between her and the baby.
That difference, which had previously seemed like a fault to him, now began to feel like something he had perhaps misinterpreted from the start.
The sound of a door opening made him look up immediately, waiting for news, any sign that would give him direction amidst that growing uncertainty.
But it wasn’t the doctor.
It was another father, with tired eyes, walking past him without saying a word, carrying an invisible burden that Marcus now recognized all too well.
The wait continued, stretching out as if time had decided to move slower, forcing him to remain within his own thoughts with no possible escape.
“Mr. Whitaker,” the doctor’s voice finally returned, calling him with a calmness that contrasted with the internal storm he could barely contain.
