The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

You glance down at the blanket gathered over your legs, at the hospital bracelet on your wrist, at the son who just rearranged the center of your life in a single morning. Hate feels suddenly too clumsy for what remains.

“No,” you say. “I know you’d find that easier.”

The days after birth pass in soft chaos.

Feedings. Stitches. Lactation consultations that feel like military exercises. Your mother crying every time Mateo yawns. Michael texting that the forensic team has already begun tracing the Harbor Point transfers. Rebecca leaving two voicemails for Damian that he does not answer while standing in the NICU hallway after Mateo’s routine bilirubin check. Life, indifferent and relentless, keeps stacking consequences on top of one another.

When you are discharged, the city is bright and cold and almost offensively ordinary.