He looked up at me.
His voice cracked right down the middle.
“She’s eight, Laur.”
“She’s eight years old.”
“So is Poppy!”
It came out as a scream.
I didn’t mean it to.
Upstairs, the floor creaked.
We both went silent.
We waited.
Nothing.
She’d only rolled over.
I lowered my voice.
“So is Poppy,” I said.
“And she sat at that window for three hours on her birthday.”
“Waiting for your car.”
“Where were you, Nate?”
He didn’t answer.
“Where were you on June fourteenth?”
He put his face in his hands.
“Nate.”
“Four West,” he said into his palms.
“Maddie’s fourth surgery was that morning.”
“It went long.”
“She woke up screaming.”
“Rachel was at work.”
“She couldn’t get off.”
“Maddie kept asking for me.”
“And you stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“Through our daughter’s birthday.”
He lifted his head.
“Laur, it was her birthday too.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
