Our daughter Addison was only three hours old—tiny, pink, wrinkled, and perfect, wrapped tightly like a little burrito. Ethan’s hands shook beneath the blanket as though the baby weighed a hundred pounds.
I stared at him. “Ethan, what are you talking about?”
His eyes were wild, searching my face like he expected to find guilt written there. “Look at you,” he snapped. “You’re smiling. You have betrayed me. That’s why you’re smiling at me—because you know this is not my child.”
The atmosphere thickened instantly. My mom’s mouth opened and closed again. My sister looked at Ethan like he was a stranger. Even the baby sensed the tension and let out a small, uncertain sound.
A short laugh escaped me—automatic, defensive. “You’re joking.”
He didn’t laugh.
Instead, he stepped back from the bed while still holding Addison, lifting her slightly as if presenting proof to some invisible courtroom.
“I’m not raising another man’s baby,” he announced loudly, as if volume alone could make it true.
