The night passed slower than I expected, as if every hour insisted on replaying what Roda had said. Ezekiel at the baby shop. Ezekiel looking at dresses. Ezekiel with a woman who wasn’t me. With a woman who was suddenly carrying a child he seemed willing to stay for.

I could not sleep.

So I shifted my focus—forced it—to Elijah. To Marga. To this small, imperfect, growing family that never asked me to bleed for love. I watched my daughter sleeping, curled beside her stuffed bunny, her ...