Not loudly, not dramatically, just a broken sound that made the apartment feel suddenly too small.
“We need to go,” I said, reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed.
She shook her head, and the movement was so small it almost did not happen.
“Wait,” she breathed. “My bag. The medical folder. It’s in the drawer.”
I opened the drawer too fast, spilling papers, receipts, an old cinema ticket, and her prenatal records onto the floor.
The folder was blue, with her name written in neat black letters on the front.
I remembered watching her write it, tongue caught between her teeth, proud of being prepared.
Now my hands could barely close around it.
When I turned back, Lucie was staring at me with a look I could not read.
Not suspicion.
Not anger.
Something worse, perhaps.
A tired awareness that I had not asked the first question a loving husband should have asked.
“Did you think I was with someone?” she asked quietly.
The words did not rise like an accusation.
They landed softly, and that softness made them impossible to avoid.
I opened my mouth, but nothing honest could come out without ruining me.
