On Christmas Eve, my husband didn’t arrive, and when I called him, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “He can’t talk. He’s with his wife, giving birth to their baby.”

I kissed her forehead and laid her back in the crib. “I’ll figure this out,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Back in the living room, the silence was unbearable. I turned on the TV for background noise but couldn’t focus on the screen. My mind replayed the call over and over. “He’s with his wife, helping her through childbirth.”

His wife.
I stared at the clock. Midnight came and went, and still no word. The food on the table had long gone cold. I walked in circles around the house, memories of Harold filling every corner.

I thought of the first Christmas we’d spent together, just the two of us in a tiny apartment. He’d surprised me with a string of lights and a cheap plastic tree, and we’d laughed all night decorating it.

How had we gone from that to this?

By 4:00 a.m., exhaustion pulled me to the couch, though sleep wouldn’t come. My phone sat silent on the coffee table. I felt a fresh wave of anger and pain every time I looked at it.

I was done imagining. I needed answers.

At 7:00 a.m., the door creaked open. I sat up, my heart pounding.

Harold stepped inside, his hair a mess, his coat wrinkled. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.“Kelly,” he started, but I cut him off.

“Don’t,” I snapped, getting to my feet. “Don’t ‘Kelly’ me. Where were you? Do you have any idea what last night was like for me? For Denise?”

His face fell, and he set his bag down by the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”