“I keep asking myself what I’m missing,” Mike said quietly that night, standing beside the crib. “What’s wrong with my child?” Carrie didn’t answer. She didn’t have one. The next morning, Mike arrived early at Eleanor’s house without calling ahead. The place smelled faintly floral. Not unpleasant. Just unfamiliar.
Eleanor stood at the counter with her back to him, pouring something from a small pot into a mug. Maxine sat in her booster seat, feet kicking weakly, eyes fixed on the cup. Mike stopped just inside the doorway. “What’s that?” he asked. Eleanor startled, nearly spilling the liquid. She turned too quickly, the mug clutched tight in her hand. “Nothing,” she said at once.