“Noah?” I called, stupidly, as if a baby could answer. “Melissa?”
The crying turned into a hoarse scream. My shoes stuck slightly to the kitchen floor. There were bottles in the sink with curdled formula crusted around the rims, and a trash can overflowing with takeout containers. A pile of unopened mail sat under a glittery coupon booklet. A pink suitcase, half-unzipped, leaned against the couch like it had been abandoned mid-thought.
I walked down the hallway the way you walk toward bad news you already know is waiting.
Noah’s door was cracked. I pushed it open with two fingers.
He was in his crib, standing on shaky legs, his cheeks wet, his face swollen and red like he’d been crying for hours. His onesie was soaked through at the front and sagging at the bottom.
His tiny hands gripped the rail and trembled. When he saw me, he didn’t smile. He didn’t reach. He just cried harder, as if recognizing an adult was permission to finally fall apart.
“Oh, buddy,” I whispered, and the words scraped out of me.
I lifted him, and his whole body curled into mine like a frantic animal finding warmth. He smelled like sweat and urine and that sour, spoiled milk smell that didn’t belong on a child.
His diaper was heavy enough to be a hazard. He was hot, not feverish-hot, but overheated from crying and being left to stew in his own discomfort. When I tried to set him on my hip, he clung to my shirt with a grip that didn’t match his size.
I held him there, rocking without thinking, and looked around the room.
That’s when I saw the note.
