“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, stepping inside, “but he needs help.”
“I said get out!” Daniel shouted.
Emily ignored him. Pain flared in her lower back as she lifted Oliver carefully. The baby clung to her uniform, trembling.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, rocking him. “I’ve got you.”
The crying softened, turning wet and weak. Emily glanced at Daniel. He hadn’t moved, like someone who’d forgotten how.
“Are you alright?” she asked gently.
He didn’t answer.
She took Oliver to the bathroom, warmed the water, cleaned him with slow, practiced movements. Her hands were steady—the same hands her own child would know soon, if life allowed.
“There we go,” she murmured. “All better.”
Her belly kicked softly. She closed her eyes for a moment.
Ten minutes later, Oliver was clean and calm, dressed in a blue sleeper. She carried him back.
“Mr. Carter,” she said quietly. “You should rest.”
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“Can’t what?”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be a father.”
The words landed hard. Emily felt them echo inside her.
“You’re trying,” she said.
He laughed weakly. “Look at this mess.”
“You’re not cruel,” she replied. “You’re lost.”
She set Oliver down, now peaceful, and sat nearby.