He cut her off immediately. “Don’t lecture me. I know what I know.”
The nurse gently placed Addison back in the bassinet and stepped between Ethan and the baby.
“Sir,” she said firmly, “if you keep raising your voice, I will call security.”
Ethan clenched his jaw but said nothing more. His eyes stayed locked on me.
“You can’t fool me,” he said quietly, with a certainty that frightened me more than his shouting. “The test will prove it.”
I looked down at my newborn daughter and felt something inside me shift—cold and clear.
If Ethan wanted a test, he would get one.
And when the results came back, one of us would learn a lesson neither of us would ever forget.
They transferred me to a quieter room after Ethan stormed out.
A hospital social worker stopped by later, speaking gently but asking direct questions. “Do you feel safe?” she asked. “Has he behaved like this before?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to protect the version of my life where Ethan was simply stressed, simply overwhelmed, simply not himself.
But the truth had been building for months.