Chapter 3

"I spent the entire winter knitting this scarf."

I stared at the charcoal grey scarf Hale was stuffing into his duffel bag.

His hands paused.

"Samantha gets terribly cold hands and feet in the winter, so I... Anyway, you've never been sensitive to the cold."

I wasn't sensitive to the cold.

Only because for the past three winters, he had always pointed the only cheap space heater in our room toward me.

He had forgotten.

On moving day, he drove a black sedan instead of his usual beat-up electric scooter.

I glanced at the emblem but said nothing.

Three years. Even the scooter was part of his act.

The three cardboard boxes weren't heavy. He moved them in one trip.

The new apartment was on the East Side, a property under Dr. Selby's name. A spacious one-bedroom with southern exposure.

It was three times larger than our studio, with a view of the distant hills.

"The interior is a bit simple," Hale said, opening the window to check the draft. "Let me know if you need anything."

I didn’t answer. I knelt to unpack.

First box: clothes, toiletries, a stack of prenatal records.

Second box: a few books, an old desk lamp, the mug I had used for two years.

The third box was half empty.

I searched through it once, then twice.

"Where is the photo?"

He was mounting the curtain rod, his back to me.

"Which one?"

"The Polaroid. The one we took on the bridge on your birthday. I kept it in the second drawer of the nightstand."

His movements stiffened. He didn't turn around.

"I wasn't paying attention when I was tossing out the old junk. Must have thrown it away."

He used the word junk.

I crouched before the half-empty box, suddenly losing all desire to keep searching.

He finished mounting the rod and brushed the dust off his hands.

"The fridge is stocked. Samantha got some groceries for you. Stop eating ramen."

"She got them?"

"She volunteered. Windsor, she genuinely wants to be good to you."

After he left, I opened the fridge. Chicken breast, broccoli, avocados, low-fat milk, all neatly organized.

Next to them was a sticky note in neat, rounded handwriting:

Daily intake for second trimester: 75-100g protein, 200mg DHA, keep taking folic acid. Avoid spicy and greasy food. — Samantha

Everything was meticulously planned, but there wasn't a single thing in that fridge that I actually liked to eat.

Samantha showed up that afternoon.

She carried two bags—one filled with baby clothes, the other with prenatal vitamins.

The baby clothes were neatly folded, but they were visibly worn and washed.

"These are hand-me-downs from my friend's baby. The fabric is broken-in and safe."

"The baby market nowadays is sketchy. New clothes have a high risk of residual chemicals. These washed ones are actually much safer—don't you think?"

She shook out a pilled onesie in front of me, gesturing with it.

"Thank you, but I don't need them."

"Oh, don't be polite." She set the clothes down, her eyes falling on the coffee table. "What's this?"

It was my pregnancy journal.

Since the day I found out, I had written a few lines every day, dedicated to the baby.

She flipped open a page and read aloud.

"‘Today, Daddy bought you your very first pair of socks. They're white, only half the size of my palm. He said you'll definitely be a fast runner...’"

"Stop reading," I said, reaching for it.

She didn't let go.

Her fingers pressed hard against the words as she looked up at me, her eyes filled with pity.

"Windsor, you write beautifully."

"But have you ever thought about what this child will feel when they grow up? When they read this journal and realize who their mother is, and who their father's actual wife is... What will they think?"

She handed the journal back.

"Just a random thought, of course. Don't take it to heart. A pregnant woman needs to keep her stress levels down."

Before leaving, she raided my kitchen, packing all the snacks I had hidden on top of the cabinet into her bag.

"These contain too many trans fats. It affects the baby's neural development. Didn't your OB tell you that?"

Her tone carried that same condescending concern, like a responsible doctor disciplining an ignorant patient.

The kitchen felt half-empty after the door closed.

I sat in the living room and opened the journal to the last page.

I had written yesterday: Baby, Daddy said he's getting married soon, but not to Mommy. Don't be scared. Mommy will always be here.

I ripped the page out, crumpled it into a ball, and clenched it tightly in my fist.

That night, Hale sent a Snapchat message: Samantha said you rejected the baby clothes she brought?

I replied: I don’t need someone else's trash.

He snapped back quickly: Suit yourself.

Five minutes later, another message arrived. It was a photo.

He and Samantha were dining at a high-end restaurant, bathed in warm light. She was leaning against his shoulder.

Caption: Taking wedding photos at the end of the month. Stay off my social media feeds.

I shoved my phone under the pillow.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a butterfly.

I stared at it for a long time.

I wanted to dial a number I hadn't called in three years. My finger hovered over the screen, but in the end, I locked the phone.

The phone vibrated again.

From Hale: I can't make it to your checkup tomorrow. Samantha’s dad has a thesis defense, and I need to be there.

I replied: Understood.