ERIN'S POV

The nurses printed Wren's first photo for me that morning.

It was a five-by-seven glossy print. She was asleep under the blue light with the CPAP mask over her nose and one fist tucked against her chin. Tasha slid it into my hand with a wink.

"For the fridge," she said. "Or for Dad."

I'd been holding it for forty minutes in the family lounge outside the NICU, sitting in one of the gray vinyl chairs that squeaked every time I shifted. Every time the elevator chimed, I looked up.

At 10:52, the doors opened and Ryan stepped out.

He looked the same. Pressed khakis, clean shave, his hair combed back the way he wore it for client meetings. For a second, my body forgot everything. I grabbed the back of the chair and pushed myself up, and the incision pulled so hard my vision went white at the edges.

He saw me struggling. I know he did.

Then he turned around and held out his arm to the woman behind him.

Nicole came off the elevator slowly, like the floor might tip. She wore a loose beige cardigan, and over her shoulders hung a navy wool coat I knew very well. I'd bought it for Ryan two Christmases ago. The sleeves hung past her fingertips. Her face was pale, her lips bare, and her hand stayed wrapped around Ryan's forearm.

They walked toward me together. I stood there gripping the chair and waited.

Ryan stopped a few feet away. He didn't hug me. He didn't ask how I was.

"Before we go any further," he said, "don't talk about the baby in front of Nicole."

---

I thought the painkillers were messing with my hearing.

"What?"

"You heard me." He kept his voice low, like we were in a library. "She's been through enough this week."

I turned and pointed at the double doors behind me. Taped beside the entrance to Pod B was a laminated card with pink cartoon footprints and a name written in marker. *WREN MERCER.*

"Ryan, your daughter is right through there," I said. "Twenty feet away. That's why you came."

Nicole made a small sound. She pressed one hand flat against her chest and closed her eyes.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I just... hearing a baby's name right now. It's a lot."

Ryan moved right away. He shifted his body between us, one arm angled out like I was something she needed protection from.

"Keep your voice down," he told me.

"I'm not yelling."

"You're getting worked up. I can see it."

Nicole opened her eyes. She had a tissue balled in her fist, and she kept twisting it between her fingers until little white pieces flaked onto the floor.

I made myself breathe. I held the photo out to him. My grip had warped it, the corners bending up.

"Just look at her," I said. "You don't have to go in. Just look."

His eyes dropped to the picture.

For half a second, I saw something move across his face. Then Nicole sniffed, and his gaze slid off our daughter and landed back on her, like a reflex.

"Can't you understand how painful this is for her?" he said.

I didn't lower the photo.

"She's three days old," I said. "Three days, Ryan. You haven't touched her. You haven't seen her. You don't even know what her hands look like. The least you could do is remember you have a daughter."

"Erin."

"Her name is Wren. You wanted that name. You picked it out of a book at two in the morning and woke me up to tell me."

Nicole's shoulders started to shake. The tears came fast, sliding down her cheeks and dripping off her chin onto the collar of his coat.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "That picture. It's just... I'll never get to have one. I'll never get to see my baby's face."

Ryan's jaw went tight.

He reached out and yanked the photo from my hand. I didn't have time to hold on. He looked right at me, and he tore it down the middle.

The sound was so small. Glossy paper splitting.

Then he leaned over and dropped one half into the trash can beside the coffee station. The other half fell to the floor.

I stared at him. He stared back, breathing hard, like I was the one who'd done something unforgivable.

I went down after it without thinking. The second I bent, the incision caught fire. A sound came out of me that wasn't a word, and I had to grab the rim of the trash can to keep from falling over. The metal edge bit into my knuckles.

Inside, on top of a crumpled coffee cup and a wet tea bag, lay Wren's face. Half of it. One closed eye and a fist the size of a grape.

I fished her out and picked up the other half from the floor. When I pulled my hand back, a single drop of blood fell from my scraped knuckle and landed on the beige floor tile between my feet.

Above me, Ryan's voice was flat and cold.

"Your baby is alive. Nicole's isn't. Stop being so cruel."

---

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't.

I held both halves of the photo against my stomach and reached for the edge of the side table. It took two tries to stand. Nobody helped me. When I finally got upright, I was shaking, and my gown was stuck to my back.

"Cruel," I repeated.

"Yes. Cruel." He ran a hand through his hair. "You knew she'd be here. You could have just let it go for one day."

"I've let it go for three." My voice cracked, and I hated that it did. "Explain it to me, Ryan. Explain why her miscarriage matters more than your own daughter. I'm really asking. Because I've been lying in that bed trying to figure it out, and I don't understand."

He opened his mouth.

Nicole spoke first.

"Ryan, stop." She wiped her face with the shredded tissue. "She deserves to know."

"Nic, don't."

But she was already unzipping her purse. She pulled out a folded square of thin, shiny paper and held it out to me. Her hand was steady now. Her tears had stopped.

I took it because I didn't know what else to do.

It was an ultrasound printout. Black and gray, the fan shape I'd seen on my own scans a dozen times. A tiny curled shape in the center, like a bean with a head. Along the top, the clinic had printed the details. *GA: 11w 2d.*

Eleven weeks.

I turned it over. On the back, in blue ink, in handwriting I'd recognize anywhere because it was on every birthday card I'd gotten for six years:

*Ryan & Nicole. Our Little Miracle.*

The loop on the R. The way he never closed the top of his A.

I looked up slowly.

Nicole was watching me. Not crying. Not trembling. Just watching, with her chin lifted a little, wrapped in my husband's coat.

"The baby I lost was Ryan's, Erin," she said softly. "Didn't he tell you?"

The lounge went quiet. The vending machine hummed. Somewhere behind the double doors, a monitor chimed and stopped.

I turned to Ryan.

I waited for him to laugh. To say she was confused, grieving, that it wasn't what it looked like. I waited for any word at all.

He didn't say one. He looked at the floor, lifted his hand, and rubbed his forehead, the same tired way he did when a project went over budget.

That was his answer.

And suddenly the last three days made sense. Every unanswered call. Every text telling me to stop. The way he couldn't say Wren's birthday. He hadn't stayed away because he didn't care about babies.

While I was being cut open across town, he'd been sitting beside another woman's bed, losing a child too.

His other child.

I looked down at my hands. In my left, my fist had crushed the two torn halves of Wren's picture so hard that her face had folded in on itself.

In my right, I held the ultrasound of the baby my husband had made with someone else.