That somehow made it worse. “Who is Daniel?” I asked. She stared at me. “Who?” “Daniel.”

Her expression changed. Just slightly. But I saw it. A flash of fear. Then it disappeared. “You were listening?” “You were talking about me.”

“I was talking about what happened.”

“Who is Daniel?” She looked toward the baby. “Not tonight.” I laughed once.

It was an ugly sound.

“Of course. Not tonight.”

She didn’t answer.

I stepped into the room.

“Is he someone from the hospital?”

Her jaw tightened.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn this into something about you.”

I felt heat rising in my face.

“You’re talking to some guy at midnight, hiding it from me, and I’m supposed to pretend that’s normal?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

But she didn’t cry.

She just looked at me and said, “You really don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing.”

That word stayed with me.

Nothing.

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to demand her phone.

I wanted to tell her that I had a right to know.

Instead, Mateo made a small noise.

Allison looked down.

And something in her face broke.

She kissed the top of his head.

“I need to sleep.”

Then she walked past me.

She didn’t ask me to leave.

She didn’t ask me to stay.

She simply closed the door.

I stood there until the hallway went dark.

At 1:17 a.m., I went downstairs.

The casserole was still in the refrigerator.

I took it out.

For the first time in three days, I ate it cold.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because I finally understood what it meant.

Someone had made that food for us because they knew Allison wouldn’t be able to.

And I had complained because it wasn’t what I wanted.

I sat at the kitchen table with the plastic container in front of me and stared at the prescription paper.

The pharmacy had closed at 9.

I had known that.

I had lied anyway.

I told myself it was because I was tired.

That wasn’t true.

I had been angry.

Some part of me believed Allison had gotten all the attention for three days while I had been left behind.

That’s how childish I was.

My wife had nearly died giving birth to our son.

And I had somehow decided I was the one being neglected.

At 2:04, my phone buzzed.

A message from Teresa.

How is Allison?

I stared at it.

Then another came.

Please tell her I love her.

Then:

And please don’t let her be alone tonight.

I frowned.

I typed:

Why?

The three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally, Teresa sent:

She didn’t tell you?

I sat up.

Tell me what?

No response.

I called her.

She answered immediately.

“Where is Allison?”

“Asleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

A long silence.

Then Teresa said, “Did she tell you about the second blood transfusion?”

I stopped breathing.

“What second transfusion?”

Another silence.

“Ethan…”

“What second transfusion?”

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you until the doctors had more information.”

“What doctors?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You don’t get to say that and hang up.”

She breathed shakily.

“Ask Allison about Monday night.”

“I was there.”

“No,” Teresa whispered.

“You weren’t.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.

I thought about the delivery room.

The blue gloves.

The bright lights.

The nurses moving quickly.

The words I didn’t like.

I remembered Allison going pale.

I remembered a doctor saying, “We need more blood.”

I remembered being moved toward the wall.

Then—

Nothing.

There was a gap.

A piece of the night I couldn’t place.

I had always blamed exhaustion.

Twenty-two hours awake.

Adrenaline.

Fear.

But suddenly I wondered whether there was something else.

At 2:31, I went upstairs.

The bedroom door was slightly open.

I could see Allison sleeping.

Mateo was in the bassinet beside her.

I almost walked away.

Then I noticed something on the floor.

A hospital envelope.

I picked it up.

My name was written on the front.

ETHAN REED

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

Not of Mateo.

Not of Allison.

It was a picture of the hospital parking garage.

Taken at night.

A man stood beside a black sedan.

I couldn’t see his face.

But I recognized the jacket.

Gray.

Black stripe across the shoulder.

I had seen it before.

I turned the photograph over.

There were four words written on the back.

You were there too.

My hands started shaking.

Behind me, Allison said:

“Put it down.”

I turned.

She was awake.

And for the first time since we brought our son home, she looked genuinely terrified of me.

“Who took this?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Who is Daniel?”

Still nothing.

I held up the photograph.

“What happened Monday night?”

Allison looked at Mateo.

Then at me.

And whispered:

“Your memory isn’t the part I’m afraid of.”

She swallowed.

“It’s what you did before you forgot.”

I felt the room tilt.

“What did I do?”

She reached into the nightstand.

Pulled out a second photograph.

And handed it to me.

This one showed the hospital corridor outside the operating room.

There I was.

Standing alone.

Except I wasn’t alone.

Daniel was beside me.

And his hand was on my shoulder.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.

Not Monday.

Not the day Mateo was born.

It was dated six months earlier.

The day Allison first told me she was pregnant.

I stared at the date on the back of the photograph.

Six months earlier.

I knew exactly where I had been that day.

At least, I thought I did.

It had been a Thursday.

I had left work early because Allison had an appointment. She had come home smiling, carrying the little white stick wrapped in a paper towel.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

I remembered hugging her.

I remembered crying.

I remembered ordering Chinese food because neither of us felt like cooking.

I remembered everything.

Except Daniel.

“Who is he?” I asked.

Allison sat on the edge of the bed.

She looked smaller than I had ever seen her.

“His name is Daniel Mercer.”

“Why was he with me?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You did.”

The certainty in her voice frightened me.

I looked at the photograph again.

The image had been taken through a glass door, probably from inside the hospital.

I was wearing the same dark jacket I had worn that morning.

Daniel stood beside me.

His hand rested on my shoulder.

Both of us were looking toward something outside the frame.

“What was I doing there?”

Allison rubbed her eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Then why was I?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said I did something.”

“I said I was afraid of what you did.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

She looked at me.

“It isn’t.”

Mateo stirred in the bassinet.

Both of us went silent.

The little sound he made seemed impossibly loud.

Allison stood and checked him.

He was asleep.

She touched his cheek.

Then she said, “Do you remember the first ultrasound?”

“Of course.”

“You told me you couldn’t go.”

“I had that meeting.”

“No.”

I frowned.

“I had a meeting.”

“You didn’t.”

She turned toward me.

“You told me you were working late. You told me the client was in town.”

“I was.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a strange look.

Then she opened the nightstand.

Inside was a folder.

Not the hospital envelope.

A different one.

She handed it to me.

I opened it.

There were screenshots.

Bank transactions.

Parking receipts.

Two hotel bills.

And a photograph of my car parked outside a medical building across town.

The date was six months earlier.

The day of the ultrasound.

My throat tightened.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“Where did you get these?”

“From Daniel.”

I looked up.

“Why does Daniel have records of my life?”

“He doesn’t.”

She paused.

“I do.”

I looked back at the folder.

The first receipt showed a withdrawal of $600.