One afternoon, when Hope was about five months old, I ran into Michael at the grocery store. He was holding Lisa’s hand.
He looked… aged. Hollow.
“Oh. Hi, Claire,” he said, awkwardly. His eyes drifted down to the baby strapped to my chest.
“This is Hope,” I said softly. “She’s perfect.”
Lisa looked uncomfortable, and Michael couldn’t hold my gaze.
“She looks… happy. You look happy,” he said.
I nodded. “We are.”
He didn’t say much else. Just that he was glad I was doing well. I never heard from him again after that.
