Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband showed up at my door with his fiancée and a wedding invitation in hand—but the second he saw the newborn in my arms, all the color drained from his face, and the perfect life he thought he’d built started falling apart right in front of me.

Not how are you, Hannah? Not are you okay? Not what a beautiful baby.

How old is he.

Because we had been divorced for six months, and I was standing there holding a newborn wrapped in a pale blue blanket.

I looked her straight in the eye. “He’s very young.”

Ethan finally spoke.

“Whose child is it?”

His voice wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse. It landed in the room like a weight dropped from a height.

I shifted Leo higher on my shoulder. “He’s my son.”

His face darkened. “That’s not what I asked.”

Victoria turned toward him so quickly her coat belt swung. “Ethan—”

He ignored her. Completely. His eyes never left mine.

“We’ve been divorced for six months, Hannah,” he said, enunciating each word. “And you’re holding a newborn.”

My incision burned. My breasts ached. My son was starting to fuss harder against my collarbone, and the man who had not called once, not checked once, not asked once whether I was alive, was now standing in my hallway asking questions like he had a claim.

“You should go,” I said.

Victoria’s smile became brittle glass. “That’s a very convenient answer.”