at him.
Then at me.
Then at Leo.
His suitcase still stood beside the door, one hand gripping its handle. His jacket was creased from traveling, and a gift bag from Selina’s birthday weekend hung from his wrist.
“Phoebe,” he said slowly, “what is going on?”
I sat at the far end of the sofa with a blanket over my legs. Three days after giving birth, nearly every movement still hurt, but for the first time since entering the hospital, I felt strangely calm.
“Close the door,” I said.
He
