She wanted to believe the doctor, to believe the nurse, to believe that everything would soon look the way it was supposed to. But the longer she watched James’s shadow by the crib, the more she felt it, the quiet shift between them that neither of them dared to name. One evening, after putting the baby down, Emily sat in the nursery folding tiny clothes.
The house was quiet, but not peaceful, it was the kind of silence that pressed down, heavy and waiting. She could hear James moving around downstairs, his footsteps measured, deliberate. When she finished, she lingered for a moment, watching her daughter sleep. The little chest rose and fell in a rhythm that should have been comforting.