Elena is sitting on the floor between the cribs. Not asleep. Not scrolling her phone.
She’s holding Lucas skin-to-skin against her chest. Her robe open just enough to share warmth. One hand supporting his back, slow and protective.
Ethan sleeps peacefully.
Lucas is quiet.
For the first time in weeks, he is quiet.
And then I hear it.
Soft. Barely audible.
A melody.
Camille’s lullaby.
The one she composed in the hospital while hooked to machines. The one she sang only to our sons.
No recording. No audience.
No one should know it.
My grip tightens around the tablet.
Elena’s humming doesn’t sound like imitation.
It sounds like memory.
Then the nursery door opens.
Miranda steps inside, silk robe wrapped around her like armor. In her hand: a silver dropper.
She doesn’t move toward Lucas.
She moves toward Ethan.
She uncaps a bottle on the side table and tilts the dropper.
Clear liquid threads into the milk.
Routine. Precise.
My lungs forget how to function.
Elena stands instantly, Lucas against her chest like a shield.
“Stop, Miranda.”
Miranda freezes.
“I switched the bottles,” Elena says calmly. “That one’s only water now.”
Miranda’s smile cracks.