He was inside, whispering.
When I pushed the door open, he jerked so hard he nearly dropped the phone.
“Who are you talking to?” I asked.
He stood up. “Jeez, Hannah.”
There was a woman’s voice on the other end before he ended the call.
Not old. Not work. Not family.
A woman.
Something inside me finally split open.
I said, very quietly, “Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Give me the phone, Daniel.”
He slipped it into his pocket. “You’re acting crazy.”
I laughed then.
I actually laughed, because it was either that or scream. “Your son says he saw you take a baby from a crying woman in the hospital hallway, and now you’re sneaking phone calls in the middle of the night, and I’m crazy?”
He came around the desk so fast I stepped back.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why? So the fake baby doesn’t wake up?”
His face changed.
It was small. Just one second. But I saw it.
And once you see guilt, you can’t unsee it.
He stared at me for a long moment, then sat back down like all the fight had gone out of him.
When he spoke, his voice was flat.
“You’re not going to like the truth.”
I remember gripping the doorframe so hard my nails bent.
“Try me.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “That baby is mine.”
My ears rang. “What?”
He looked up at me with dead eyes. “She’s my daughter.”
I said, “Of course she’s your daughter. She’s our daughter.”
He shook his head once.
“No. Not ours.”
I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough for the silence to become its own living thing.
Then I heard myself ask, “Whose baby is in my nursery?”
He swallowed. “Her name is Ava.”
My voice rose. “Whose. Baby.”
He stared at the desk. “Mine. And Nicole’s.”
Nicole.
I knew the name before he said anything else. A woman from his office. Pretty in a soft, expensive way. The kind of woman men call easy to talk to when what they mean is willing to flatter them.
I almost sat down, but there was nowhere to sit that didn’t feel filthy.
“You had an affair.”
“Yes.”
“And brought the baby here.”
