Chapter 2

The next afternoon at two, Ethan showed up.

He brought a bag of organic cherries and a pair of baby socks—cream-colored, so tiny they looked like little cotton balls in my palm. He set them on the coffee table and smiled naturally at Mom. "Sorry I'm late, Helen. We're wrapping up a big project at work, and I couldn't get away."

Mom said, "You didn't have to bring anything."

He helped Mom wash the dishes, rubbed my swollen feet, and even volunteered, "We'll hire a top-tier postpartum doula when the baby's here. Only the best for Chloe."

Mom peeked out of the kitchen with a relieved look in her eyes.

I pulled my feet back from his hands. "No need. I'll handle it myself."

Ethan looked up, a faint flash of scrutiny in his eyes before he smiled. "Sure, whatever you want."

When he left, I walked him to the door and handed him his coat.

My fingers brushed against a piece of paper in his pocket. Thinking it was a tissue, I pulled it out. A receipt. Not for the cherries.

It was a purchase slip from "Little Sprouts Maternity" nearby: Newborn bath tub x1, smart bottle warmer x1, baby crib mobile x1. Checkout time: Yesterday at 3:27 PM.

I crumpled the receipt in my fist and handed him his coat.

"Take care. Call me if you need anything," he said, taking the coat and stepping into the elevator.

The door closed.

I went back inside and smoothed out the receipt under the desk lamp.

Our nursery at home was already fully set up—the tub, the warmer, the mobile. We bought them together two months ago. He had bought another set yesterday.

Where was the other set?

Mom walked in with a glass of milk. "He seems so attentive. I always knew Ethan was a reliable guy."

"Yeah."

I took a sip of milk and slipped the receipt into my pocket.

That night, I scrolled through Ethan's Instagram. He hadn't posted in three months. I scrolled further back. Two months ago, there was a post—a photo of his living room. There were two new floral cushions on the sofa and a pot of sweet osmanthus on the windowsill. The sunlight made the room look warm and cozy. The caption read:

"Finally feels like home."

I checked the date. It was exactly three days after I had been sent to my mom's.

"Finally feels like home."

The seven years I was there, it wasn't home. Now that I was gone, it was.

I put the phone down and pulled out Nana's vintage baby clothing patterns. They were kept in a moisture-proof bag—thirty-two pages of hand-drawn designs, from onesies to little bear bonnets. Every single page had Nana's handwriting on it, detailing fabric types, stitching notes, and measurements. Her writing was tiny and neat.

On the back of the last page, she wrote:

"For Chloe's baby. Nana prepared these early. Once she's born, Nana will sew them."

Nana passed away last winter. Two weeks before she died, she called to ask if my belly was showing yet. Her voice was incredibly weak, but she still asked.

I sat on the edge of the bed and traced her handwriting with my finger, not pressing down, just tracing.

I packed the patterns back into the bag, put them at the very bottom of my suitcase, and covered them with my clothes.

On my check-up day, Ethan said he was too busy at the office to come and told me to take an Uber.

While waiting in line, I got a text from Mom: "That flower shop by your place put up a sign today. It says: 'Dad's Zone—Gifts for the new life you're welcoming.' Did Ethan buy anything there?"

I stared at the message for twenty seconds, locked my screen, and stuffed my phone into my bag.

The intercom called my name. I stood up and walked into the exam room.

My OB/GYN, Dr. Julian, was in his early thirties. He was a man of few words and went through my chart quickly. "No husband today?"

"Busy."

He didn't pry. He ordered a follow-up blood test for my anemia and heavily circled three items on the third-trimester care sheet. He handed it to me. "Keep these three in mind."

I folded it and put it in my bag, got my lab results, took a picture, and sent it to Ethan: *Iron levels are still low. Need to take more supplements.*

He replied with a DoorDash gift card link.

"Order whatever you want. Just make sure you get enough nutrition."

I didn't use the link. I ordered a bowl of tomato noodle soup at the hospital cafeteria and sat down.

At the table opposite me, a young couple was eating. The husband nudged his bowl toward his wife. "I know you don't like the thick noodles." She smiled. "You finally noticed." They laughed.

I lowered my head and took a sip of my soup.

It was already cold. I realized I had been spacing out for a long time.

Back at my mom's, I opened Apple Health. Ethan's step count today was 12,847.

A man who "couldn't leave the office" had walked nearly thirteen thousand steps.

I searched the flower shop on Yelp—"Blooming Daisy." It opened three months ago. The business registry showed the owner's name: Daisy Jiang. Her profile picture showed a girl with a round face, long curly hair, and two sweet dimples when she smiled. One Yelp review said: "The owner is so sweet. And there's a handsome guy from the neighboring building who always helps her carry the heavy flower pots."

I turned off my screen and stood on the balcony.

Mom came out and draped a jacket over my shoulders. "Don't stand in the draft. It's not good for the baby."

I touched my belly. The baby gave a strong kick.

I whispered, "Mommy's here."