“Do you want to hold her?” I asked.
Ryan nodded, carefully taking Lily in his arms. But as he looked at her face, something shifted. His joy dimmed, replaced by something I couldn’t name. A shadow crossed his features. He stared at her for a long moment, then quickly handed her back.
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“She’s beautiful,” he said, but his voice sounded forced. “Just like her mama.”
At first, I blamed exhaustion. We’d been through hell. But once we were home, his behavior worsened.
Ryan avoided Lily’s gaze. He’d feed her or change her diaper, but his eyes always focused just above her head. When I tried to take newborn photos, he’d make excuses to leave the room.
“I need to check the mail,” he’d say. Or, “I should start dinner.”
The real alarm came two weeks later. I woke to an empty bed and the sound of the front door closing softly. The first time, I thought he was just getting fresh air. By the fifth night, I knew something was wrong.
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