CHAPTER FOUR
EMMA
“Dan,” I hissed.
Not loud enough to wake the baby. Loud enough to carry a threat.
He froze halfway across the bedroom, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching a muslin cloth like it was a weapon. In the low light, he looked like a man trying to defuse a bomb with no training and a very shaky YouTube tutorial.
“What?” he mouthed back.
Ruby let out a tiny snuffle from the Moses basket beside the bed, then went still again.
We both held our breath.
Silence.
For a second, I thought we’d got away with it.
Then Ruby’s bottom lip trembled in the moonlight and my whole body tensed like a warning siren had gone off inside me.
Dan looked at me, wide-eyed.
Don’t. I tried to communicate with nothing but pure murderous intent.
He still moved.
The floorboard near the wardrobe gave a soft, traitorous creak.
Ruby’s face scrunched. Her fists clenched.
And then…
WAAAAAH.
Fucks sake
It wasn’t a normal cry. It was the kind of newborn cry that says, I have been wronged. In my own home. While I slept.
Dan winced, like it physically hurt him. “I barely touched the floor,” he whispered, panicked.
I sat up so fast I saw stars. My hair was a nest. My T-shirt was inside out and slightly damp down one side where Ruby had leaked on me earlier. My breasts felt like two angry boulders strapped to my chest.
“It’s the floorboard,” I mouthed. “It always creaks.”
He blinked at me.
“How do you know it’s always the floorboard?” he mouthed back, genuinely confused.
I stared at him. Because I live here. Because I am awake for every single sound this house makes. Because I know the exact pitch of every creak, cough and toy being stepped on in the dark like I have a PhD in nocturnal household acoustics.
Ruby’s cry ramped up, offended now, turning into a full-body protest.
Dan reached down and hovered his hands over the Moses basket like he was trying to cast a spell.
“It’s okay,” he whispered to her, uselessly. “It’s okay. Daddy’s here.”
Ruby screamed louder, in case he hadn’t heard her the first time.
Dan looked at me again. “What do I do?”
That question. That exact question. It wasn’t even angry, it was just… helpless.
And something in me went very still.
Because the answer was always the same, wasn’t it?
You do nothing. You hand her to me.
“I’ve got her,” I whispered, already swinging my legs out of bed.
“You don’t have to…” he started.
I didn’t even look at him.
Ruby was bright red, furious and small. Her tiny face wet with tears. The moment I picked her up she rooted against my chest, mouth open, frantic. She didn’t want Dan. She didn’t want soothing. She wanted me. She wanted my body. My smell. My milk. My everything.
I pulled her close and swayed gently, the movement automatic. Muscle memory. Motherhood instincts. The horrible, unfair truth that sometimes it didn’t matter how good a dad Dan was. Ruby still treated me like I was oxygen.
“There you go,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “You dramatic little gremlin.”
Ruby made a tiny offended sound and burrowed in closer, as if to say, Correct. And I will do it again.
Dan stood there, watching.
And I felt it, that strange, sharp thing I couldn’t name in the moment.
Not resentment. Not exactly.
More like… being observed but not held. Like I was performing a role he was grateful for, but not one he wanted to step into with me.
“Want me to sleep on the sofa?” he whispered.
The words landed like a slap.
Because what he meant was: You’ll handle it. Like you always do. I’ll return to rest now.
And the thing was, he wasn’t even being malicious. He was being practical.
But practical doesn’t keep you connected. Practical makes you efficient. Practical turns you into a system.
“No,” I whispered. “Stay.”
Dan hesitated, uncertain. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face.
Ruby’s crying eased. Her breathing then smoothed.
I hated how quickly it happened. How instantly her body surrendered when she was in my arms.
Dan watched me again. “You’re like… magic.”
It was meant as a compliment.
It still made me want to scream.
“I’m not magic,” I whispered, shifting Ruby to get her latch right. The pull was sharp at first, then dulled into that strange, draining relief. “I’m just… here. All the time.”
Dan nodded, like he understood.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t. Not yet.
In the dim light, his face looked tired too. His eyes were rimmed red. His shoulders slumped the way they did when he’d had a long day at work. He wasn’t sleeping much either. He wasn’t living his best life while I suffered. He was struggling.
And yet.
There was a difference between struggling and being the default.
Ruby’s eyelids fluttered. Her hand, still damp with newborn sweat, curled around my finger.
Dan exhaled slowly. “I’ll go get another muslin.”
I looked at the muslin already clutched in his hand.
He followed my gaze and lifted it slightly. “This one is… wet.”
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was absurd.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He stood again, careful this time, lifting his feet like he was walking through a field of landmines. He made it to the dresser without creaking the floorboard. He grabbed another muslin. Triumph flickered across his face like he’d just solved world hunger.
He crept back, held it up like an offering. “See? I’m learning.”
Something about that, his earnestness, his tiny victory, made my chest ache.
Because this was what it had become. Him learning the basics like a trainee. Me already fluent in every language our children spoke, running the whole operation while he celebrated a muslin like a milestone.
I adjusted Ruby again and she made a satisfied little noise.
Dan sat back down. “I can take her if you want. When she’s finished.”
My throat tightened. It was a reasonable offer.
But I didn’t want reasonable.
I wanted him to know what she needed without asking. I wanted him to notice that I hadn’t showered in three days. That my stitches still pulled when I moved. That my body wasn’t mine anymore; it belonged to three children and a schedule and a million invisible tabs open in my head.
I wanted him to look at me like he used to. Like I was a woman, not a resource.
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
Dan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not fine.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He shook his head, quieter now. “You look… wrecked.”
It wasn’t a criticism. It wasn’t cruel. It was just truth.
Still, my stomach dipped.
“I had a baby three weeks ago,” I said flatly. “What did you expect?”
He winced. “That’s not what I meant.”
I wanted to soften. I wanted to let him in. I could almost feel the edge of it, this moment where I could say, I’m scared. I’m lonely. I don’t know how to do this without losing myself.
Instead, I said, “What time is Oscar’s Rugby practice tomorrow?”
Dan blinked, thrown. “What?”
I stared at him.
The question wasn’t really about Rugby. It was about everything.
Do you know anything? Are you carrying any of this? Is any of it in your brain? Or is it all just… in mine?
Dan hesitated. “I… don’t know.”
Of course he didn’t.
“And Sophie’s school trip form,” I continued, voice tight. “Did you sign it?”
He looked genuinely panicked. “What form?”
The heat rose in my throat. Not rage, something worse. A kind of despair that feels like you’re screaming underwater and no one can hear you.
“It’s in her book bag,” I said. “It needs signing by tomorrow.”
Dan rubbed his face. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.”
“And milk,” I added, because I couldn’t help myself. “We’re nearly out.”
He nodded quickly. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
I almost laughed again. Tomorrow. As if tomorrow wasn’t already full. As if there was space in tomorrow. As if tomorrow wasn’t another day I would manage like a machine.
Ruby unlatched and sighed, milk drunk and content. I tucked her close, patting her back gently. She made a small burp that sounded impossibly adult, then relaxed into my chest like I was the safest place on earth.
Dan watched her, softening. “She’s… perfect.”
“She is,” I whispered.
He leaned in, brushed a kiss against Ruby’s head. Then, without thinking, his hand hovered near my shoulder, like he might touch me too.
He paused.
Something passed between us. A question. A hesitation.
Then his hand dropped.
And the air shifted slightly cooler.
Dan cleared his throat. “You should sleep. I can take the morning with Oscar and Sophie. Get them dressed. Breakfast.”
I looked at him.
That was… something.
“You can?” I asked, cautious.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course. I should. You’ve… you’ve been up all night.”
I swallowed. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope makes you let go of control. Hope makes you believe someone else will catch you.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Dan nodded like he’d just agreed to a mission. “Okay.”
Ruby stirred again, fussy now, tiny mouth searching.
I adjusted her. She settled, cheek pressed to my skin.
Dan shifted on the bed. “I’ll set an alarm. Six?”
The fact that he had to ask told me everything.
Six is when they’re awake. Six is when the day starts. Six is when my brain turns on like a computer booting up and begins listing everything we need to do.
“Six,” I said.
Dan exhaled, relieved. “Right.”
He lifted the covers and shuffled his body inside, careful not to wake Ruby.
His eyes were tired. His face open.
“I love you,” he whispered.
The words should have filled me up. They should have made me feel held. Chosen. Seen.
Instead, they slid past the surface of me and landed somewhere hollow.
Because love wasn’t the thing I doubted.
It was everything else.
“I love you too,” I whispered back, because it was true. Because I always would.
Dan nodded, then rolled over.
Ruby’s warmth anchored me to the bed, her tiny body heavy with sleep.
I stared into the dim room and thought about the promise we’d made in the hospital. The pact. The sacred thing we’d sworn we wouldn’t break.
We won’t let this ruin us.
Maybe this was just the newborn phase. Maybe we were both exhausted and sensitive and half-feral. Maybe in a few weeks, when Ruby slept longer and my body stopped aching and the days didn’t feel like a blur of feeds and forms and forgotten milk, we’d find our rhythm.
Maybe Dan would take more of the thinking.
Maybe I’d stop feeling like the only person holding everything together.
Maybe we’d remember how to be Emma and Dan again.
I tightened my arms around Ruby and let myself believe it.
Because believing was easier than admitting the truth.
That the crack wasn’t coming.
It was already here.
And we hadn’t even noticed it forming.