I keep checking the clock like it’s going to surprise me.
Sixteen minutes past six. Then seventeen. Then seventeen again, because the second hand seems to stick when I stare too hard. I tell myself to stop hovering, to breathe, to enjoy the quiet while it lasts. Tonight matters. Tonight is supposed to feel normal again.
Evan will be home in two hours.
Two whole hours until my husband walks through the door, drops his keys in the bowl by the entryway, and smiles that tired, crooked smile he gets when he’s been working too much but doesn’t want to admit it. I haven’t seen him properly in days. Not really. He’s been leaving before dawn and coming back after midnight, all hushed voices and apologies and quick kisses to my forehead while I pretend to stay asleep.
He says it’s temporary. Just until the quarter ends. Just until the project launches. Just until his supervisor notices how indispensable he is.
I believe him. I have to.
Jack fusses softly from the baby monitor, a thin sound like a kitten stuck behind a wall. I head upstairs, scooping him from his crib before he can escalate into a real cry. He smells like powder and milk and that indefinable warm sweetness that makes my chest ache.
“Hey, bug,” I whisper, rocking him. “Mama’s got you.”
He settles against me, heavy-lidded and trusting. Six months old today. Or yesterday. I’m not entirely sure. The days blur together lately, measured less by calendars than by feedings and naps and the slow crawl of exhaustion.
I lay him back down after a few minutes, smoothing his hair with my thumb. He doesn’t stir when I leave the room, which feels like a small victory.
Downstairs, the house looks… fine. Normal. A little messy, sure. A stack of clean laundry waiting to be folded on the couch. A smear of something sticky on the coffee table. Toys scattered like landmines across the rug. Evidence of a life being lived.
I preheat the oven and set the chicken on the counter. Evan’s favorite. Rosemary, lemon, garlic. Comfort food. Food that says I see you, I missed you, I’m still trying.
As I work, I narrate to myself without realizing it. Salt. Pepper. Wash hands. Don’t forget to turn the oven light on—Evan likes to peek in and comment on how good it smells. I smile at the thought.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door and flinch.
God, I look wrecked.
Dark crescents under my eyes, skin dull despite the moisturizer I slather on every morning with optimism I don’t feel. My hair is clean, at least, though it falls limp around my shoulders no matter what I do to it. I can hear Evan’s voice in my head—you’re beautiful, you know that—and I almost believe it.
Almost.
I shove the chicken into the oven and set the timer. The click of it is reassuring. Something is officially in motion. Dinner is happening. Tonight is happening.
I check the baby monitor again. Jack sleeps, chest rising and falling in that way that still makes me watch too long, counting breaths just to be safe.
I pour Evan a drink—just a finger of whiskey, like he likes—and leave it on the counter with a single ice cube floating lazily. I don’t pour myself one. I haven’t had a drink since before Jack was born. The thought of alcohol on top of this level of fatigue feels dangerous, like leaning over a balcony railing just to see how far the drop is.
Instead, I make coffee. Even as I pour it, I think, this is a bad idea. I’ve already had too much today. My hands tremble slightly as I lift the mug. Still, I drink it. I need to be present. I need to be awake when Evan gets home.
I go upstairs to change.
The dress I pick is navy blue, soft, forgiving in the places I need it to be. It hides the worst of the stretch marks and the lingering softness around my middle. I spritz perfume at my wrists and neck, the scent familiar and comforting. Evan bought it for me years ago, back when “date night” meant staying out too late and sleeping in the next day.
I pause in the hallway, listening.
The house hums quietly. Refrigerator. Furnace. The distant rush of cars outside. No crying from the baby monitor.
Good.
I check the clock again. Forty-two minutes have passed. Or maybe twenty. Time feels unreliable, like it’s bending just out of sight.
I go back downstairs.
The smell of roasting chicken fills the kitchen now, rich and savory. I pull vegetables from the fridge and start chopping, careful and methodical. My knife thumps rhythmically against the cutting board. I focus on the sound, the repetition. It keeps me anchored.
That’s when I hear the key in the door.
I startle so hard I nearly drop the knife.
Already?
I glance at the clock. No. That can’t be right. There’s still—
The lock turns. The door opens.
“Evan?” I call, my voice already lifting with relief.
He steps inside, shrugging out of his coat. He looks thinner than I remember. Sharper around the edges. His eyes flick to the counter, the drink waiting for him.
“Hey,” he says, smiling.
The sound of his voice hits me like a wave. Warm. Familiar. Real.
“You’re early,” I laugh, rushing to him. I press the glass into his hand before he can say anything, lean up to kiss him. He tastes like cold air and peppermint gum.
“Something smells incredible,” he says, kissing me back.
“I made your favorite,” I say, grinning like an idiot.
He chuckles, loosening his tie. “I figured. You always do when you’re trying to spoil me.”
“Well, you deserve it.”
He wanders toward the living room, then the hallway. Toward the stairs.
“And where’s my guy?” he calls. “Did I miss bedtime?”
“He’s asleep,” I say. “He was fussy earlier, but he went down okay.”
Evan nods, already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll just peek.”
I follow him, still talking about dinner, about how good Jack’s nap schedule’s been, about nothing important at all. The normal things. The things we say when everything is fine.
He stops abruptly in the doorway to the nursery.
I almost run into him.
“Babe,” he says slowly, “why is there a chicken in the crib?”
I laugh. A sharp, startled sound. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He doesn’t laugh back.
He stares into the room, frozen.
I step around him, irritation flaring. “The chicken’s in the oven, Evan. I literally just—”
I stop.
The crib is empty.
No. That’s not right.
I step closer. My heart begins to hammer. The mattress is bare. No baby. No blankets. No Jack.
“That’s not funny,” I say, my voice thin.
Evan turns to look at me. His expression isn’t confused. It’s careful. Concerned in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“Where’s Jack?” he asks.
“He was—” I swallow. “He was sleeping. I just checked on him.”
“When?”
“Just now. Earlier. I don’t—”
The baby monitor on the dresser is dark. Unplugged.
I don’t remember unplugging it.
“I put him in here,” I insist, even as doubt claws at the edges of my mind. “I rocked him. He fell asleep on my shoulder. I laid him down.”
Evan’s jaw tightens. “Honey.”
“I didn’t move him,” I say, louder now. “Why would I move him?”
“Okay,” he says gently. “Okay. Let’s just slow down.”
Something in his tone snaps a thread inside me.
“Where is he?” I demand.
Evan doesn’t answer.
He just looks past me, down the hall.
I turn.
The smell hits me first.
Roasted chicken. Stronger than before. Almost overpowering.
The oven timer goes off downstairs.
We stare at each other.
“No,” I whisper.
Evan moves before I do, pushing past me, taking the stairs two at a time. I follow, my legs weak, my thoughts skidding wildly. This doesn’t make sense. It can’t. I would know. I would remember.
Wouldn’t I?
The kitchen is filled with smoke.
The oven door hangs open.
Inside, on the rack, is the roasting pan.
Inside the pan—
I scream.
Evan grabs me as my knees give out, my scream tearing out of me again and again, raw and animal and endless. He pulls me away, but I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop seeing.
Too small.
God, it’s too small.
I don’t remember putting him in there.
I don’t remember opening the crib again.
I don’t remember anything after the coffee.
The house smells like rosemary and lemon and something else underneath it all. Something burnt. Something final.
Evan is shouting my name, his voice breaking, but it sounds far away. Like it’s coming from another house. Another life.
The last thing I see before everything goes dark is the mug on the counter.
My mug.
Cold now.
Still half full.
