They didn’t fit.
But she had a baby. A real baby. I’d seen her heartbeat with my own eyes.
And she knew things. She knew my name. She knew Roy’s name. She knew I was his wife.
She’d asked for me specifically.
Why would a woman pregnant with my husband’s child come to me for prenatal care?
Why would she want me to see her?
To hurt me.
That’s the only answer I could think of.
She wanted me to see the baby. On the screen. The baby I couldn’t have.
That evening, Roy came home late after surgery.
Eight-forty. A bowel resection that went long. He came in through the kitchen door with his bag over his shoulder and a paper sack from Thai Palace, our favorite takeout place, in his other hand.
He kissed my cheek.
“Long day?” he asked.
“You have no idea.”
He set the takeout on the counter. Pad see ew for him. Green curry for me. He always remembers. Extra spicy. With a side of jasmine rice.
He brought me a plate. He set it in front of me at the kitchen table.
I looked at it.
I couldn’t eat.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
He sat down across from me. He looked at my face. Roy has a way of looking at you. Like he’s reading your chart. Like he’s looking for the thing that’s wrong.
“Just tired,” I said.
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re always hungry for green curry.”
“Not tonight.”
He reached across the table and put his hand over mine.
“Van,” he said. “Talk to me. What happened today?”
I looked at his hand on mine.
His surgeon’s hand. Steady. Warm. The hand that held mine on the kitchen floor.
I almost told him.
I opened my mouth.
And I thought about Tessa’s face. Roy’s daughter.
“Nothing,” I said. “Bad delivery. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He didn’t push. He never pushes.
Roy went to bed early.
He had a seven a.m. Whipple. A big surgery. Eight hours. He needed sleep.
He kissed my forehead at ten o’clock.
“Love you, Doc,” he said.
“Love you too.”
He went upstairs.
I stayed at the kitchen table.
At eleven-thirty, I went upstairs. Roy was asleep on his back with one arm over his face, the way he always sleeps. Biscuit was curled up at the foot of the bed.
His phone was on the nightstand. Charging.
For the first time in twelve years, I picked up his phone while he slept.
I knew the passcode. I’ve always known it. Our wedding date. He’s never changed it. He’s never had a reason to.
I took it downstairs. To the kitchen. I sat at the table under the yellow light.
And I opened it.
I want to be honest about what I expected to find.
I expected texts. Pictures. Miss you. Can’t wait to see you. When are you going to tell her? Hotel receipts. Venmo payments. All the things you see in the movies.
I was ready for it. I’d spent the whole day getting ready for it.
That’s not what I found.
I searched his texts for Tessa.
Nothing.
I searched for Morrow.
Nothing.
I scrolled through his text threads. Me. His sister in Phoenix. His residents. The OR scheduler. His college roommate, Dave. The guy who mows our lawn. A group chat with three other surgeons that was entirely about fantasy football.
Nothing.
I opened his photos. Pictures of Biscuit. Pictures of me. Me asleep on the couch. Me at the beach in Michigan last summer. Me holding a pineapple pizza with a disgusted look on my face. Pictures of surgical diagrams. Pictures of a weird mole on his back he wanted me to look at.