He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to.
His silence grew heavy. It filled the space between them.
When a nurse asked if he wanted to hold one of the babies, he shook his head slightly. “Maybe later,” he said, his voice low.
Later never came.
Before the day ended, he stepped out of the hospital room. He said he needed air. He said it was overwhelming. He said he would be back.
He didn’t return that night.
Or the next day.
Or the day after that.
By the time she was discharged, her phone had gone silent. Messages unanswered. Calls ignored. There were no dramatic goodbyes. No shouting. No clear accusation.
Just absence.
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