Chapter 3

Suddenly, Ethan became very attentive.

He FaceTimed me twice a day and came to Mom's on weekends to cook soup. He couldn't stop talking at the dinner table: "I'll bring you guys home after the baby's first month. I've already secured an experienced doula."

Mom paused her fork, nodded, and shot me a look—*See? He's not so bad.*

I finished my soup in silence.

That weekend, Ethan left his phone on the sofa armrest when he went to wash his hands. Within seconds, it buzzed three times.

Mom, sitting nearby, looked up. "Chloe, Ethan's phone is ringing."

I walked over and picked it up. The screen wasn't unlocked, but a Snapchat preview popped up.

The contact name was "Daisy 🌸".

The message was cut off, only showing the first part: "I chose pastel yellow curtains for the baby's nursery. What do you think—"

The attached image didn't load.

I put the phone back, sat on the sofa, and turned up the TV volume.

Ethan came out, drying his hands, and sat next to me. He laughed at the show on TV.

I laughed too.

But we weren't laughing at the same thing.

The next day, I used the excuse of a "follow-up anemia check" to go back to my own neighborhood.

From a distance, I saw the flower shop. Wind chimes hung from the eaves, and the window was filled with beautiful succulents. It looked incredibly cozy.

I didn't get too close. I ordered an iced unsweetened tea at the coffee shop across the street and took a window seat.

I sat there for an hour.

Ethan's car was parked behind the flower shop. He usually parked in the underground garage. I knew that spot well.

At 10:40 AM, Daisy came out to pour some water. She was wearing an oversized slate-blue hoodie. The sleeves were long, and there was a faded brown stain on the left cuff, visible in the sunlight.

I had washed that stain many times. It was a coffee stain on Ethan's hoodie from when he knocked over his mug.

I sat in the coffee shop, my fingers tightening around my cup.

At 2:00 PM, Ethan walked out of the flower shop's back door. He was holding a brown envelope, talking on his phone in a professional tone, saying, "Let's double-check this milestone." He walked to his car, got in, and drove away.

I took a photo: the car, the back door of the flower shop, and his back. All in one frame.

I saved it to my locked folder.

On my way back, he texted: "How was the check-up?"

I replied: "Much better. The doctor said to keep taking the meds."

He sent a hugging emoji.

I stared at the cartoon icon. I thought of the way he folded my clothes, and how he washed those organic cherries one by one and put them in a bowl.

His care and his lies used the exact same muscles.

That night, I called Clara.

"Chloe, since you're pregnant, there are a few legal points you need to keep in mind," her voice was clinical, as if she were dissecting a case study, not my life. "First, a husband cannot file for divorce during pregnancy or nursing, but you can. Second, custody of children under two usually goes to the mother, unless he can prove you are unfit..."

"What does 'unfit' mean?"

"Emotional instability, lack of financial means to support the child, or an unstable living environment. They can use any of those," Clara paused. "Chloe, how much do you have in savings?"

I opened my banking app. Balance: $14,321.

I told her the number. Silence stretched on the other end for two seconds.

"Enough for the initial filing, but not for a prolonged battle. You need to secure a stable income stream."

After hanging up, Mom brought in a bowl of warm sweet soup, set it on the nightstand, and sat beside me. "Things seem off between you and Ethan lately."

I took a sip and didn't answer.

"Before your dad passed away, he told me something," Mom said softly. "He said, 'Don't let Chloe end up like me.' I never understood what he meant. But now I think he knew how much he owed us, and he didn't want you to be neglected like that."

Mom stood up, paused at the door without turning back, and said, "But what's the point of knowing? He's gone anyway."

The door clicked shut.

I pulled out Nana's sewing patterns, flipping to the page of the bear bonnet. Nana had drawn a little bear in the margin with a note: "Yellow soft fleece for the ears, stuff them with cotton so they're squishy."

I thought: *When the baby is born, I'll make this bear bonnet myself.*