My Husband Made Me Forget Our Dead Baby

"If he exists," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper that feels like broken glass in my throat, "I want to meet him. Tonight."

Atticus doesn't hesitate. He doesn't argue. He simply reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone.

Two hours later, we are sitting in a corner booth at a restaurant downtown. The lighting is dim and amber-toned, casting long shadows across the white linen tablecloth. The air is thick with the scent of roasted garlic, expensive red wine, and a suffocating, unbearable civility.

Across the table sits Adelaide Medina. Beside her is Miguel Hill.

Miguel is exactly what Atticus promised: solid, pragmatic, entirely real. He rests a casual hand on the back of Adelaide's chair. When the waiter approaches, Miguel orders for her after she hesitates, pours her sparkling water, and behaves with the effortless, synchronized rhythm of a man who has inhabited a woman's life for years.

But I am not looking at Miguel. I am watching Adelaide.

Her posture is rigid, her spine perfectly straight against the leather booth. She wears a dark silk blouse that drapes carefully over the slight swell of her stomach. When the waiter sets down our plates, she removes her wire-rimmed glasses, folds them with mechanical precision, and places them exactly one inch from her water glass.

"It's good to see you, Atticus," Miguel says, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. He cuts into his steak with steady hands. "Though the invitation was a bit sudden."

"I appreciate you making the time," Atticus replies. His knee brushes mine under the table; I flinch away, pulling my legs tight against the seat. Atticus's jaw tightens, a tiny muscle feathering just beneath the skin near his ear.

Adelaide doesn't look at Atticus. She keeps her gaze fixed on the table, tracing the condensation on her glass with one manicured fingernail.

*Guilt,* my mind whispers. *She can't even look him in the eye.*

"So," I say, the syllable slicing sharply through the polite hum of the dining room. "When is the baby due, Adelaide?"

Her finger stops its tracing. A microsecond of absolute stillness. She glances up, her eyes darting toward Atticus—just a flicker, just a fraction of a second—before answering. "October."

"How wonderful." I smile. The expression feels like a grimace, stretching the skin tight over my cheekbones. "Miguel must be thrilled."

"We both are," Adelaide says. Her voice is entirely flat, stripped of the warm, breathless joy of an expectant mother. It is the voice of a scientist reporting a data point. She reaches for her water, and I watch the way her fingers tremble, just slightly, before she grips the heavy glass.

She's uncomfortable. She's trapped. Miguel is a prop, a convenient shield Atticus dragged out to blind me. The way Adelaide avoids Atticus's eyes isn't the indifference of an ex-lover—it's the desperate, vibrating tension of two people trying not to touch a live wire in public.

The dinner ends with excruciating politeness. The check is paid. Hands are shaken.

Now, we are in the car. The heavy doors of Atticus's sedan seal us inside a leather-lined vacuum. The city streets blur past, the rhythmic flash of streetlamps washing his profile in harsh yellow light before plunging it back into shadow.

He is waiting for me to speak. To concede. To tell him the elaborate performance was enough.

My phone vibrates against my thigh.

I slip it from my pocket, angling the screen toward the window to shield it from his peripheral vision.

*Londyn.*

*Did you go?*

I type a single letter with a shaking thumb: *Y.*

The gray response bubbles appear, vanish, then reappear.

*Mer, listen to me. It's a setup. Think about it. He has the money and the connections to stage whatever he needs you to see. Do you really think he'd just hand you the truth over dinner? He's making you doubt your own eyes.*

My breath hitches, a sharp, shallow intake of air. I read the words again. *Making you doubt your own eyes.*

I look at the dark blur of the city. I think of the rust-brown stain on the doll. The yellow sweater my mother's failing hands knitted. Adelaide's clinical, guilty silence.

I press the power button, plunging the screen into darkness, and flip the phone face-down on my lap.

The leather of the steering wheel groans as Atticus shifts his grip.

"Meredith," he says softly. The word is thick with a heavy, desperate hope. "Now that you've seen them... can we please talk about this?"

I turn my head slowly. The streetlights catch the hollows of his eyes, the tense, waiting line of his mouth. He looks exhausted. He looks like a man who thinks he has won.

"No," I say. The word drops between us, cold and absolute.

Atticus blinks. The knuckles of his right hand whiten against the wheel. "Meredith, Miguel is the father. You saw them together. You saw—"

"I saw exactly what you wanted me to see, Atticus."

"It wasn't a performance!" The sudden volume of his voice fills the cabin, startling in its rawness. He catches himself, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath his tailored coat. "I am trying to save us."

I look away, fixing my eyes firmly on the red taillights of the car ahead. The panic that had been drowning me all day is gone, replaced by a freezing, impenetrable clarity.

"Keep your eyes on the road," I tell him, my voice devoid of any tremor. "I have nothing left to say to you."

The silence that follows isn't empty. It is a locked door, and I am finally on the other side of it.