You’re punishing me for something we both wanted.
Then one that made him sit very still.
Emily may not be as innocent as you think.
He replayed that message three times.
Then deleted it.
But Madison had planted a small unease, and unease was a seed that grew best in silence.
On the twelfth day after the birth, Mark received a second photograph.
This time, it showed Grace’s hand.
Just her hand.
Tiny fingers curled around Emily’s index finger.
Emily’s skin looked pale but warm. The baby’s wrist was narrow as a ribbon. Mark zoomed in until the image blurred.
He whispered, “Hi, Grace.”
There was no one there to hear him.
Two days later, Lily’s picture came.
Her cheek, half-hidden beneath a little knit cap.
Then Hope’s.
Hope’s photo arrived late at night.
She was asleep, her face turned slightly toward the camera, impossibly small beneath a soft white blanket. A thin tube rested near her nose. One fist was lifted beside her cheek as if she had been interrupted mid-dream.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his youngest daughter.
Hope.
The child who had entered the world in silence.
The child Emily had named while he was absent.
He began to cry without making a sound.
The next morning, he boxed every gift Madison had ever given him.
A leather-bound journal.
A bottle of cologne.
An antique silver bookmark from a trip she had taken to Paris.
He left the box with the concierge at her building and included only one note.
Do not contact me again.
Madison called within an hour.
He did not answer.
She texted.
You think this makes you noble?
He blocked her number.
