Rain beat against the windshield. People passed through the hospital entrance with balloons, infant car seats, flowers, and soft little blankets. Every few minutes, another father walked out smiling as if life had just placed something holy in his arms.
All I had been given was an envelope.
Panic hit me first. Anger came second, because guilt often disguises itself as anger when a man refuses to face what he has done.
I called Olivia.
Disconnected.
I called her sister, Beth.
Straight to voicemail.
I called her mother.
Blocked.
Then I called Serena.
She picked up on the second ring, bright and casual, as if my entire world had not just broken apart.
“Did you talk to her?”
“She’s gone,” I said.
Silence followed. “What do you mean gone?”
“She had the baby fifteen days ago. She left.”
Serena breathed out. “Well, she’s being dramatic.”
That sounded familiar because I had said the same thing before.
“She gave birth alone,” I whispered.
“You don’t know that.”
“I wasn’t there.”
Another pause.
Then Serena said, “Michael, don’t let her manipulate you with the baby. She knew what she was doing.”
For the first time, her voice did not feel affectionate. It sounded calculated.
I ended the call.
I drove back to the house, expecting Olivia to have emptied half of it. Somehow, what I found was worse. She had taken only the things that mattered: her clothes, the bassinet, the baby supplies, the framed picture of her late father, and the recipe box her grandmother had left her. Everything that belonged to me remained untouched.
On the kitchen counter sat a folder.
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