Chapter 4

That afternoon, I stood in the kitchen of a one-bedroom apartment while the landlord told me my OB’s office was a twelve-minute drive away.

The apartment was small. The bedroom fit only a bed and narrow wardrobe. But the living-room window had space for a desk, and one wall could hold a crib.

“If you sign now, you can have the keys tomorrow,” Lila said.

She didn’t ask where my husband was. She checked my proof of income, work contract, and bank card.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Lila placed the keys in my palm. The tag on the ring read A-12.

It was the first key I had been given that I alone could decide whether to hand over.

Tessa helped me load two boxes into her car.

“The light by the crib space is good,” she said.

“I may buy one secondhand. And a chair for night feedings.”

“That sounds like you’re planning your own home.”

I put the key in my wallet.

When I returned to the house, Nolan was gone.

Paige’s suitcases had been moved into the guest room. A pair of slippers sat outside the door.

Newborn-care books were on the coffee table, bookmarks tucked into the chapter on soothing a baby at night.

Upstairs, I packed my clothes, work laptop, and prenatal records.

I boxed the external display my publisher had provided and told my assistant editor I would work remotely. I would still lead Wednesday’s author meeting.

Then I opened my banking app.

My paycheck had gone into our joint account every two weeks since Nolan and I got married. We had called it simpler.

I changed the direct deposit to my own account and canceled automatic transfers.

I couldn’t untangle everything overnight.

But Nolan would no longer be able to treat the money I earned as the default budget for Paige’s new life.

I photographed the schedule beside the account records.

Then I emailed Nolan.

I wrote four things: I had moved out; my future income would no longer go into the joint account; decisions about the pregnancy, birth, or baby had to be confirmed by both of us in writing; and Paige could not act as a caregiver unless I agreed.

I ended with:

This is not a cooling-off period, and it is not an attempt to force you to change your mind. This is notice that we are separating.

I sent it.

Nolan came home at dusk.

I was carrying a box of books toward the door. He saw it, then the empty space on the shelves.

“You really signed a lease?”

“I did.”

“You’re pregnant. You can’t move out by yourself.”

“Tessa is in the car.”

He stepped closer. “Maya, I know last night was awful. But you don’t have to make it this big. Give it a few days. You’ll want to come home.”

I set the box down.

He hadn’t asked whether my new place was close to the hospital or whether I had somewhere safe to sleep that night.

He only believed I would come back.

“You can keep believing that,” I said. “I’m done waiting for you to assign me a place.”

For the first time, he had no answer.

The bathroom in my new apartment had one harsh ceiling light. Tessa’s soup had gone cold. I sat on the floor, ate it anyway, and plugged in my work laptop.

A little after nine, my phone buzzed.

His mother had posted in the family group chat: Maya is emotionally unstable right now. Please don’t upset her further.

Paige replied: I only want her to know that we all love this baby.

I didn’t answer.

Ten minutes later, Nolan sent a photo.

He had reprinted the schedule and taped the copy to the refrigerator in the house I had left.

Next to Baby’s first night home, Paige had written her name in blue marker.

Paige — overnight.