Chapter 3

That evening, Lydia taped a chore schedule to the refrigerator.

Suzanne was responsible for daytime feedings. Mike would handle baths and getting the baby to sleep at night. Beside my name, someone had written, "Wash bottles, change bedding, and feed the baby at 2:00 am."

I stared at my name for several seconds. It was as if I could hear the relentless cries of babies from the hospital room six years ago.

I tore the schedule off the refrigerator, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.

Rita's expression darkened. "What do you think you're doing? You're Mike's wife. Isn't taking care of his child your responsibility?"

Suzanne held Ian and looked at me with wounded eyes. "Nadia, I've already agreed not to marry Mike, and I won't move into the master bedroom. Ian can call you Mom, while I'll just be his birth mother. How much more do you expect me to give in?"

I turned to Mike. "Is this what you want, too?"

He rubbed his temples. "I know feeding in the middle of the night is exhausting. Mom can help you with that. You'll have to accept Ian eventually. He's not some stranger."

Those words weighed heavily on my chest.

I looked Mike straight in the eye and said slowly, "But to me, he is a stranger."

Mike's expression hardened. "He's my flesh and blood."

I retorted, "So what?"

Not backing down, Mike said sternly, "So, if you still want this family, you can't insist on having a husband while refusing to accept his child."

Rita nodded approvingly. "You heard him. Being Mrs. Harris comes with responsibilities. Suzanne gave birth to the child, and you're going to raise him."

The words "feed the baby at 2:00 am" loomed before my eyes.

I remembered how, after my miscarriage, I'd often heard the phantom cries of a baby in the middle of the night.

Back then, Mike had stayed up with me night after night, comforting me until the early hours in the morning. He'd told me I couldn't spend the rest of my life trapped in grief over a child who'd never been born.

I stopped arguing and returned to the bedroom to retrieve the bank statements I'd printed that afternoon. I had needed to review my personal accounts while processing my transfer. That was when I'd discovered just how much money Mike had secretly spent.

The statements showed payments to overseas agencies, prenatal appointments, a postpartum care center, and Ian's sip-and-see party. The total came to 436 thousand dollars.

Of that amount, 280 thousand dollars had come from the rental income on the small apartment I owned before marriage.

Mike glanced at the statements, his voice turning stiff. "Why are you suddenly looking into this? I was planning to pay the money back once my year-end bonus came in."

That 280 thousand dollars had come from the apartment Mom had left me.

A cold laugh escaped my lips. "Why didn't you ask me before touching that money?"

Mike replied, "It was family money spent on a child. Do I even need to ask?"

I said nothing more and slipped the statements into a document folder.

Behind me, Rita cursed me for valuing money more than family bloodlines. She said it was no wonder I'd lost my baby.

I didn't look back.

Once I returned to the bedroom, I sent the bank statements, security footage of the move, and the chore schedule to my lawyer. Then, I zipped up the suitcase I'd already packed.

On the afternoon of the third day, the driver messaged me to say he was waiting downstairs. I pulled my suitcase behind me and placed the divorce agreement on the bedside table.

As I opened the bedroom door, a baby bottle rolled across the floor and stopped against my shoe. Ian was lying in a stroller just outside the door. His face had taken on a bluish tint. There was milk around his mouth, and his chest rose faintly only after a long pause.

The living room was completely empty. I called Suzanne's name twice, but no one answered.

The gold pendant Mom had left for my baby lay crooked against Ian's neck, its chain digging into the folds of his skin. I quickly unclasped the chain that was cutting into his neck, lifted him into my arms, and immediately called 911.

Just then, the elevator doors opened. Suzanne came out first, carrying the newly collected photo album from Ian's sip-and-see party. Rita and Lydia followed behind her.

The moment Suzanne saw little Ian in my arms, the smile vanished from her face. The album slipped from the crook of her arm and dropped heavily onto the floor.

She rushed over, snatched Ian from me, and screamed, "What did you do to Ian?"