Again, at 2:20 a.m., he entered with a paper bag and repeated the same routine. He checked the crib, sat on the floor, opened the bag, ate, drank, and wrote.
I searched further back.
He had been doing it every night for nearly a month.
Sometimes the food came from a burger restaurant, sometimes from the corner convenience store, and once from a fast-food place, judging by the grease spreading through the bag.
Every night followed the same hidden ritual.
And every night, he looked destroyed.
He did not appear relaxed or sneaky in the way I imagined someone having an affair might behave. He looked hollow and folded inward, as though standing upright would cause the walls around him to collapse.
Still, when I finally saw the contents clearly, my stomach dropped.
By morning, I had created three different explanations, and none were good.
Maybe he was drinking every night because he could not sleep otherwise.
Maybe he ate secretly because dinner was not enough.
Or perhaps he was writing down all the reasons he regretted this life, our baby, and me.
When I woke at seven, Ethan was already in the nursery.
I watched him lift Noah with the same gentle awkwardness he had shown since the first day.
He always supported our son’s head as though his hands were not worthy of holding something so delicate.
Then he noticed me.
“You okay?”
I realized I had been staring.
“Fine,” I lied.
He frowned. “You sure?”
I almost confronted him then.
