Chapter 41
Emma
Six weeks later
Nora was nine weeks old today. During that time, there had been broken nights and aching arms, bottles drying by the sink, and lullabies whispered into the dark.
She’d watched Liam cradle their daughter with something close to reverence, his touch so careful it hurt to watch.
And all the while, Emma had waited—quietly, patiently, sometimes desperately—for him to come back to her.
He hadn’t left—not in the obvious ways. He rose for the midnight feeds, kissed her temple when she passed him the baby, and slipped into bed each night carrying the same familiar warmth.
Presence wasn’t the same as belonging, though, and lately Emma could feel the absence in every brush of air between them.
She sat curled on the couch, Nora sleeping against her chest, a muslin cloth draped over her shoulder.
Across the room, Liam stood at the sink rinsing bottles, his movements steady, almost mechanical.
He worked as though usefulness might disguise the distance, like it could fix what wasn’t being said.
She let herself study him from across the room.
The tension that never seemed to leave his shoulders, the way his jaw carried a constant edge, and the way he stared at the sink long after the water had stopped running.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him laugh, not really, not the kind of laugh that reached his eyes and softened his face.
The part of him that once lived so easily in brightness had gone quiet.
She couldn’t tell if it was hiding or truly gone.
She wasn’t blind or na?ve. She had always been a woman who faced truths head-on, who didn’t waste energy ignoring what was right in front of her.
This time she found herself hesitating, caught between the fear of naming what she saw and the deeper fear of hearing it confirmed.
She hadn’t asked him yet, maybe because she already knew the answer, or because putting it into words would tear the thin fabric holding them together.
When Nora stirred in her sleep, Emma shifted carefully and carried her upstairs, lowering her gently into her crib.
She stood there for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of her daughter’s chest—this tiny girl who felt both like salvation and the fragile thread binding her to a man she wasn’t sure she could hold on to anymore.
When she came back downstairs, Liam was leaning against the counter, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond the kitchen. His jaw was locked tight and his eyes distant, as if he were bracing himself against something only he could see. He didn’t hear her come in.
“Are you okay?” Her voice came softer than she intended.
His head jerked slightly, like he’d been caught. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Emma moved closer, standing beside him so their arms almost brushed.
She just stood there, letting the silence hang heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
After a while, she spoke, low but steady.
“Soon, I’m going to ask you what’s really going on—and when I do, I need you to tell me the truth. ”
Liam turned, his gaze finally locking on hers.
For a moment, Emma felt the weight of him press down on her.
He drew breath to speak, but Emma couldn’t bear to hear what would follow.
She wasn’t ready for the apology or the excuse that might come next.
She quickly reached for the baby monitor and walked upstairs.
Later, when the mattress dipped behind her, she kept her back turned, eyes on the soft blue glow of the monitor. She listened to him settle and the way the bed shifted beneath his weight. He didn’t touch her, and for the first time, Emma didn’t lie awake hoping he would.
She listened to the hush of white noise from the monitor and let her mind drift back to that morning.
Nora had smiled up at her—gummy and bright-eyed, pure joy without reason.
She’d been an absolute angel these past weeks, gentle in her needs and calm in a way that felt like mercy.
As if, somehow, she understood her mother was feeling vulnerable and had chosen to give her grace.
If it came to it—if Liam left—Emma knew she would survive. Not untouched, not without grief, but survive all the same. Being a mother had changed everything. Liam might still be slipping from her grasp, but in Nora’s tiny fists, Emma had found something worth holding on to.