At home, the nursery you built mostly by yourself looks smaller with a baby in it and more sacred too. The little wooden moon over the crib. The dresser your mother refinished. The stack of burp cloths folded in militant rows because organizing small squares of fabric turned out to be easier than organizing grief. Mateo sleeps in noisy, miraculous bursts. The apartment becomes a country ruled by his hunger.
Damian comes twice that first week.
Always announced. Always careful. Always carrying something unnecessary, as if baby blankets and hypoallergenic detergent can compensate for betrayal. You let him in because Mateo deserves a father who shows up, even if only belatedly. But you no longer rescue Damian from the atmosphere he created.
He must sit in it himself.
On the second visit, while Mateo sleeps against his shoulder, Damian says quietly, “Rebecca moved out.”
You do not look up from the bottle parts you are sterilizing. “Out of the loft or out of your fantasy?”
His mouth tightens. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He watches you for a moment. “She said I made her look stupid.”
That gets your attention. You turn, one bottle ring in your hand, and study him. “Did you?”