I returned home from the hospital forty-eight hours after giving birth, exhausted and aching, my newborn son tucked carefully into his carrier. I kept telling myself everything would feel normal once I stepped through the front door. My husband, Ethan Cole, had stayed behind with our four-year-old daughter, Lily, while I delivered. My mother, Diane, was supposed to be helping.
But the second I walked in, nothing felt normal.
Lily didn’t run toward me. She was sitting stiffly on the couch, pale and unnaturally still, hands folded in her lap like she was afraid to move. Her favorite stuffed rabbit lay forgotten on the floor.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Did you miss Mommy?”
She glanced at the baby carrier, then lowered her eyes without answering.
A cold knot tightened in my stomach.
Ethan appeared from the kitchen wearing a smile that felt rehearsed. “You’re home,” he said brightly. “Everything’s fine. You should rest.”
I didn’t look at him. I knelt slowly in front of Lily. “What happened while Mommy was gone?” I asked gently. “Did something scare you?”
Her bottom lip quivered. She leaned closer and whispered so faintly I almost missed it.
“…Daddy and Grandma…”