Part 2: “Two in the Morning”
I went completely still.
“What are you saying?” I whispered.
“He took the baby, and the lady was crying, and Daddy said that this was the only way this works,” Toby explained through his tears.
My mouth went dry.
“Did you see the baby’s face?” I asked.
Toby nodded quickly.
“She had the pink hat on,” he insisted. “Not the flower hat.”
At the hospital, our baby girl had worn two different hats, because the nurses had swapped them when she needed fresh clothing.
One was plain pink, and the other was white with tiny pink flowers. I had never told Toby about that detail, and neither had anyone else.
I don’t remember exactly what I said to him after that, but I know I tucked him into bed and stayed beside him until he finally fell asleep, one small fist twisted tightly in my shirt.
When I eventually went downstairs, it felt like wading through deep water.
Christopher was in the kitchen preparing a bottle for the newborn when I walked in.
“Did he finally calm down?” Christopher asked without looking up.
I leaned against the doorway for support.
“What happened when you took Toby to get juice at the hospital?” I asked directly.
His expression didn’t change right away, which somehow unsettled me even more.
“What are you talking about?” he asked casually.
“At St. Joseph Medical Center,” I said. “Toby said you went down another hallway.”
Christopher gave a short, dismissive laugh.
“He is five years old, Hannah,” Christopher remarked. “He imagines things.”
“He said he saw you with a woman,” I continued, watching his face closely.
That was when his expression finally shifted from calm indifference to sudden calculation.
He set the baby bottle down carefully on the quartz counter and turned around.
“Are you seriously doing this right now?” he asked, stepping toward me.
“Doing what, Christopher?” I asked coldly.
“We have a newborn at home, you are completely exhausted, and Toby is acting out because he is jealous,” Christopher stated firmly. “Can we please not turn this into some enormous drama?”
There it was, the very response I should have seen coming.
I had lived with Christopher for nine years by then, and I knew the subtle changes in his voice when he was uncomfortable or buying time.
“Who was the woman?” I demanded.
“It was no one,” he answered smoothly.
“Toby said you gave her a heavy envelope,” I pressed on.
Christopher laughed again, but the sound was far too loud and forced.
“An envelope?” Christopher asked mockingly. “You are taking financial crime tips from a five-year-old witness?”
“Stop talking about our son like he is dishonest!” I snapped.
“Then stop questioning me over a child’s imagination!” Christopher yelled back.
Upstairs, the baby started crying over the monitor.
Christopher glanced at the ceiling, picked up the bottle, and walked right past me.
“We are not doing this tonight,” he said, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
For two days I tried to act as if everything were normal, but it was impossible.
Toby refused to go into the nursery at all. If I asked him to hand me a diaper, he quietly left the room, and when relatives came over to congratulate us, he stared at the floor and wouldn’t speak.
On the third night, I woke at exactly two in the morning to find Christopher gone from our bed.
The baby wasn’t crying, and his phone was missing from the nightstand charger.
I got up and went downstairs, where I noticed a narrow line of light spilling from under his office door.
I could hear him talking nervously to someone on the phone.
When I pushed open the office door without knocking, he startled so badly he nearly dropped the phone onto his desk.
“Who are you talking to at this hour?” I demanded.
He shot to his feet.
“Jesus, Hannah, you scared me,” he gasped.
Before he ended the call, I heard a young woman’s voice come through the speaker.
“Give me the phone, Christopher,” I ordered softly.
“No, you are being unreasonable,” he replied, sliding the device deep into his pocket.
I laughed out loud, because it was either laugh or completely lose my composure.
“Your son says he saw you take a baby from a crying woman in a hospital hallway, you are making secret phone calls at two in the morning, and I am the one being unreasonable?” I yelled.
He hurried around his desk.
“Keep your voice down!” he hissed.
“Why?” I shouted back. “So the baby upstairs doesn’t wake up?”
His face changed instantly, and once you recognize true guilt on someone’s face, you can never forget it.
He sank heavily into his desk chair as though all the fight had drained out of him.
“You are not going to like the real truth,” he whispered, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Try me,” I challenged, gripping the doorframe so hard my fingers hurt.
“That baby upstairs is mine,” Christopher admitted flatly.
I stared at him in complete disbelief.
“Of course she is your daughter, she is our daughter!” I argued.
He shook his head slowly.
“No, Hannah,” he said quietly. “She is not ours.”
