Chapter 3

My husband packed the story we had written for our dead baby before leaving to spend the night with another woman’s daughter.

I stood in the bedroom doorway and watched Ethan slide a freshly printed copy of The Little Comet Who Found Home into his leather overnight bag. A new box of colored pencils rested beside it, still sealed in plastic.

"For the retreat?" I asked.

He glanced up while zipping the bag. "There’ll probably be some downtime."

The lie came without hesitation.

He checked his watch, then looked at me again. The moment he noticed my face, his expression changed.

"You don’t look fine." He came closer and touched my arm. "Call me if you need anything, okay? I can leave early if I have to."

He walked over and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

His large, warm hands slid down my waist, resting perfectly flat against my stomach.

For one brief second, his palm rested flat over my stomach.

I stopped breathing.

He was happily preparing to spend the night reading to another woman's daughter.

Yet, our own miracle baby—the child he had desperately wept for six years ago—was growing right beneath his palms.

Ethan knew none of that.

"I already called the carpenter," he said. "He's coming next week to measure the walls. We can finally get those custom bookshelves for the children's reading room."

"When I get back tomorrow, we’ll finish the last page of the comet story," he said. "We’ve left her without an ending for long enough."

I looked at him for a moment.

"Drive safely."

Ethan bent down and kissed my forehead. "I love you."

Then he picked up his bag and walked out.

I waited until I heard his car leave the driveway before going upstairs.

The suitcase was on the top shelf of the closet. I pulled it down and packed only what I would need for the next few weeks—clothes, medication, my drawing tablet, chargers, and the folder from my doctor’s appointment.

My phone buzzed on the bed.

It was my lawyer.

The authorization is ready. I can file as soon as you confirm.

I read the message once and typed back.

File it.

Her reply came less than a minute later.

Understood.

I closed the suitcase and carried it downstairs.

Before leaving, I stopped outside Ethan’s study.

The original manuscript of The Little Comet Who Found Home was still in the bottom drawer of his desk. The pages had yellowed slightly at the edges.

I carried the manuscript to the desk and turned to the final page.

It was still blank.

Six years ago, neither of us had known how to finish the story. The little comet had spent page after page trying to find its way home, but when we lost the baby, I could no longer write the ending.

Yesterday, Ethan had smiled at me and said we could finally finish it together.

I picked up the pen beside his notebook.

This time, I knew how the story ended.

I wrote one sentence across the center of the page.

Then I put the pen down.

I slipped the ultrasound photograph between the final two pages, followed by the visitor badge I had worn at the elementary school.

Nora Bennett. Family Reading Night. 7:42 PM.

My phone buzzed again.

Made it safely, Ethan wrote.

A second message followed before I could put the phone away.

I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Wait for me.

Then:

Love you.

I stared at the screen.

I closed the phone.

Then I took my suitcase, walked to the front door, and opened it.

He sent that message believing he had perfectly managed his double life.

He was still eagerly looking forward to coming home tomorrow morning, expecting me to be waiting for him with a warm smile.

But by the time he finally opened our front door, me and the miracle baby he had wept for six years ago would already be gone.