Ryan returned to the hospital at 7:43 that evening.
I know because I stared at the clock when he walked into my recovery room.
Five hours.
He had been gone five hours.
Marissa had finally fallen asleep in a recliner beside Amelia.
I was awake.
Ryan appeared in my doorway looking like he had aged a decade since morning.
“Em.”
I stared at him.
“Leave.”
His shoulders dropped.
“Please.”
“You walked out.”
“I know.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t say ‘I know’ to me tonight.”
He entered anyway.
I lowered my voice so I wouldn’t wake Marissa.
“Your daughter was being evaluated by specialists.”
“I panicked.”
“Your wife called you eleven times.”
“I know.”
I pointed at him.
“You said it again.”
He shut his mouth.
I wanted to throw something.
Unfortunately, the heaviest object within reach was a plastic water pitcher.
“What happened to you?”
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face.
“I screwed up.”
“That became obvious when you handed me your newborn like she was a damaged Amazon package.”
He flinched.
Good.
“Tell Marissa.”
“I will.”
“When?”
He didn’t answer.
I stared at him.
“Ryan.”
“I’ve got more.”
Of course there was.
There is always more when somebody starts a confession that way.
“What did you do?”
He sat down.
For several seconds he just stared at the floor.
Then he said:
“I got laid off.”
I almost laughed because it seemed too simple.
“Okay.”
His eyes lifted.
“Four and a half months ago.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“The company sold two divisions. They eliminated most of management.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve gone to work every morning.”
“No.”
“Ryan.”
“I leave the house.”
“Where do you go?”
“Library.”
My skin went cold.
“Coffee shops.”
He kept talking.
“Recruiting offices. Interviews. Sometimes I sit in the parking lot outside the old office because I don’t know where else to go.”
I could barely process what I was hearing.
“Marissa thinks you still have a job.”
“Yes.”
“She thinks you have paid parental leave starting next week.”
“Yes.”
“She thinks your medical coverage is still through your employer.”
“I moved us onto continuation coverage.”
“With what money?”
Ryan looked away.
That answer frightened me more than anything else.
“What money?”
“Severance.”
“And after that?”
“Savings.”
“How much is left?”
Silence.
“Ryan.”
“Almost nothing.”
I thought about the nursery.
The custom dresser.
The stroller.
The infant car seat.
The home renovation they had done.
“All that baby stuff?”
“Cards.”
“What cards?”
“Credit cards.”
“How much?”
He told me.
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes your brain needs a useless noise when the number it hears is too big.
“You owe that much?”
He nodded.
“And Marissa doesn’t know?”
“No.”
I looked through the partially open door toward the hallway leading to Amelia.
My niece had been alive less than twelve hours.
Her father had already tried to disappear from the truth twice.
Once physically.
Once financially.
I whispered:
“You’re telling her tonight.”
Ryan shook his head.
“Emily, please.”
“Tonight.”
But his unemployment wasn’t the only secret he had been hiding. Continue to Page 5.
