The bag stands by the bed since last night. I pack it myself nappies, the going-home outfit, tiny sleepsuits in white and yellow stripes that I bought when I was eight months pregnant. The nurse says, By ten in the morning, and I nod as if it is obvious. My husband will answer. My husband will come. My husband is always on time.
I plug my phone in to charge and lie down. My daughter sleeps next to me in a transparent cot small, wrinkled, with dark fuzz on the back of her head. I look at her and think that now everything will be different. That David will understand. That three days in the hospital are three days when men grow up.
At ten in the morning he does not come.
I call he does not pick up. I message he reads but does not reply. Then he messages himself, at half past ten: Be there soon. I put the phone away. The nurse brings documents for signature. The care assistant helps dress Sophie that is what we called her beforehand, even before birth, Sophie.
At eleven he has not come.
I call again. This time he answers voice sleepy, drawn out, as if he has just got up.
David, where are you?
Coming, coming. Traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, he pauses. I am leaving now.
I put down the phone. Sophie fusses in the outfit, blows bubbles. I look out the window there is the grey February courtyard, bare trees, cars along the kerb. Opposite the hospital, across the road, is a café. Small, with yellow letters on the glass. I have seen it for three days from the ward window, but never really looked at it.
Now I look.
At one of the tables by the window sits a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. He sits with his back to me, but I know that back by heart how many times I have looked at it in the dark when he turns to the wall and falls asleep faster than I can say good night.
Opposite him sits a woman. Young. A pram stands next to their table grey, expensive, with large wheels.
I stand by the window for perhaps three minutes. Then I take the bag, ask the care assistant to hold Sophie and go downstairs to the duty nurse.
I need to go out for five minutes, I say. Are the documents all ready?
Ready. But you had better wait for your husband, she looks at me over her glasses.
I wont be long.
I go out through the service exit that Helen the woman in the next bed, who was discharged yesterday showed me. February hits straight away in the face, under the jacket, in the ears. I cross the road, push the café door.
Inside it smells of coffee and cinnamon. Quiet music plays something jazzy, unidentifiable. I see them immediately.
David sits, holding a cup with both hands. He laughs head tilted slightly back, shoulders relaxed. I have not seen him so relaxed, it seems, for three months. Since the bump became noticeable.
The woman says something and smiles. She is attractive fine features, short chestnut hair. From the pram next to them there is no sound the child sleeps.
I approach the table and stand beside it.
David raises his head and the smile disappears from his face as quickly as if someone has pulled the cord.
Laura
Hello, I say. You were supposed to be on your way.
He sets the cup down. The woman looks at me with polite bewilderment.
Laura, wait, this is not
Not what I think? I do not raise my voice. There are several other tables in the café, I feel that people are watching us, but I do not care. You did not answer the phone at ten. Messaged be there soon at half past ten. It is almost twelve now. I stood by the ward window and saw you face to face, David. Almost face to face.
Laura, he stands. Let us go outside.
Why go outside? I need to get back soon Sophie is there.
The woman opposite him sits up a little straighter.
Excuse me, she says. Are you his wife?
Yes.
My name is Rachel. Rachel Miller. I work with David.
I look at her. Then at the pram.
We just happened to meet here, Rachel continues. I live in the neighbouring building. I came in here with my daughter. David apparently came in too. We just started chatting.
How long have you been talking?
Rachel is silent for a moment.
I arrived around nine.
I look at David.
Around nine, I repeat. You were here at nine in the morning. You knew the discharge was at ten.
Laura
Did you know?
I knew, he does not avert his gaze, but something in him shifts such a small, almost unnoticeable bewilderment. I wanted to pop in for a coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, David. Three hours is not five minutes!
In the pram nearby the child stirs. Rachel quickly bends down, adjusts the blanket. Her daughter is probably three months old.
Sorry, Rachel says to me. Quietly, without dramatics. I did not know about the discharge. He did not say.
It is fine, I reply just as quietly. You are not to blame.
I turn to David.
The documents are ready. Park the car by the service exit, I will tell the security guard, he will let you through. Wait there.
And I leave.
—
On the way back across the road I walk slower than on the way there. February no longer seems so sharp perhaps because I warmed up a little in the café, perhaps for another reason. I think about how Sophie does not know anything about discharges yet. That she is three days old, and her main task is to snuffle and eat. That she has her whole life ahead of her, and I want that life to be good.
The care assistant waits for me at the desk with Sophie in her arms.
Well, has he arrived?
He will arrive, I say. He will be here soon.
I take my daughter. She smells of milk and talc, and this smell is so real, so concrete, that everything else the café, the blue jacket, the jazz recedes a little.
The nurse hands over the remaining documents. I sign where indicated. I dress myself, dress Sophie the outfit fastens with three buttons, my hands shake a little, but I manage.
David waits by the service exit. The car stands exactly where I said. He comes out to meet us, reaches to take the bag I hand it over. Then he tries to take Sophie I do not hand her over.
Laura
Later, I say. First home.
He does not argue.
—
In the car we drive in silence.
Sophie sleeps in the car seat I sit in the back, next to her, with my hand on the side. David drives. A pine tree air freshener hangs from the rear window it has been hanging there since December, I always forget to say that it needs to be removed.
Is she sleeping? he asks.
Yes.
Good.
Through the window the February streets stretch grey, with coarse snow along the pavements. Few passers-by. A patch of advertisement on the gable of a building: some bank, some offer.
I look at Sophie. She has a habit in her sleep to slightly open her mouth, as if she is about to say something and puts it off for later. I have already come to love this habit.
Laura, says David.
Later, I answer again.
I just want to say
David. Later.
He falls silent. Red light ahead. He stops the car. Taps his fingers on the steering wheel not hard, almost silently. Habit.
Green. We drive.
I think about how the hospital is left behind. That ahead the flat, in which three days ago I was still a completely different person. Or the same. I do not know.
We park by the entrance. David takes the bag. I take Sophie. We enter the lift. Go up to the sixth floor. He opens the door with the key fumbles with the lock for a long time, as always, because the lock should have been changed long ago, and we kept putting it off.
Welcome home, he says quietly. It is unclear to whom to me or to her.
Thank you, I reply.
—
At home it smells the same as three days ago a bit of coffee, a bit of dust, a bit of his aftershave. In the kitchen sink stand two cups. I count them at once two. Not one.
I put Sophie in the cot we prepared it two months ago, white, with a cloud mobile. Sophie turns her head a little and settles. I go out to the kitchen.
Who was here? I ask.
David stands by the window. Does not turn immediately.
In what sense?
Two cups in the sink. I left for the hospital on Thursday. Today is Sunday. Who drank from the second?
Mum was here.
Your mum came?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I think.
I turn on the tap, take the sponge. Silently wash both cups. Put them to dry.
David, I say, without turning. I want to talk. But not now. I need to feed Sophie and get at least an hours sleep. Then we will talk.
Okay, his voice is cautious, like a person walking on ice and not knowing where it is thin.
And I want you to be honest. Not now later. But honest.
I am honest.
I finally turn.
You sat in the café opposite the hospital from nine in the morning. On the day your daughter is being discharged. You turned off the sound on your phone and did not answer even once until I called myself. That is not honest, David. Even underhand!
He looks at me. In his eyes is that same expression that I learned to read over four years of marriage: not guilt confusion. He does not feel guilt, he feels that he has been caught.
I will explain, he says.
I am listening. But not now. In two hours.
I go to Sophie.
—
She feeds quickly greedily, efficiently, with complete seriousness. I look at her and think: here is a person who needs nothing explained. Who does not need to be told be honest. Who simply needs you all of you, entirely, right now.
I lay her down and lie down myself. I think that I will not be able to sleep but I fall asleep before I reach the end of this thought.
I wake after an hour and a half. Sophie sleeps. The flat is quiet.
David sits in the kitchen coffee in front of him, phone face down. When I enter, he puts the phone in his pocket. Too quickly.
I pour myself some water. Sit opposite.
Speak, I say.
He is silent. Then begins:
Rachel and I have worked together for two years. You know, we were working on one project that tender in November. She went on maternity leave before we finished, there was a lot in short, we talked a lot.
I remember that tender, I say. You came home at ten in the evening. I was in my seventh month.
Yes. He does not deny it. We worked a lot.
And?
And nothing. Just worked. He raises his eyes to me. Laura, I swear, there is nothing between us.
Nothing was? Or nothing is?
Pause. Small, almost unnoticeable but I catch it.
Nothing is, he repeats.
And was there?
He sets the cup on the table.
Laura
Yes or no.
It is more complicated than yes or no.
I nod. Very slowly.
Understood.
Wait. He stretches out his hand, but I do not lean towards it, and he withdraws it. It was long ago. Before you became pregnant. One time. I it was a mistake. I stopped everything myself.
One time.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be in the café opposite the hospital exactly when I was waiting for you.
I went in for a coffee. Saw her. We got talking. Laura, I did not plan it I swear.
You did not plan it, I repeat. You just did not come to your daughters discharge. Not on purpose. It just turned out that way.
He is silent.
I stand. Walk to the window there is the familiar courtyard, trees, cars. I think that three days ago I looked from another window at the same sky.
David, I say, not turning. I will not make a scene. I do not have the strength for that, and honestly, the desire either. We have a three-day-old daughter. I want you to understand one thing.
What?
I would forgive a mistake. I would probably be able to get over it if you had told me yourself. But before I accidentally saw you through the window. You understand the difference?
He is silent.
You did not come to the discharge not because you lingered in the café. You did not come because it was more important for you to sit there. And it is not even about Rachel. It is about what was more important to you.
I turn.
I am not going to make any decisions today. I want you to know that. Today I will feed Sophie and sleep. Tomorrow the same. In a week we will talk again, and you will tell me everything honestly. Not one time, not a mistake honestly. Then I will think.
Laura
That is all I can do right now.
He nods. Very quietly.
Okay.
—
The following few days are strange dense, like cotton wool. Sophie sleeps, eats, looks at the ceiling seriously, with the air of a person solving an important question. David moves around the flat quietly, cooks, goes out twice for nappies, once for my medicine. I do not drive him away and do not call him.
On the third day his mother calls.
I answer the phone, because I am used to answering.
Laura, Annes voice is tense, a bit higher than usual. How are you? How is Sophie?
Fine. Everything is fine.
Listen, I wanted to ask. David is acting strangely. What happened?
Talk to him yourself.
Laura, well
Anne, I say calmly. I love and respect you. But right now I cannot talk about this. I feed the child every three hours and hardly sleep. When I am ready we will talk.
Pause.
Okay, says my mother-in-law. Sorry.
It is unexpected.
I will bring you some soup tomorrow, she adds. Is that all right?
Yes, I say. Thank you.
Anne arrives the next day exactly at midday, with a pot of chicken soup and a bag of pastries. I open the door for her, she comes in, takes off her shoes, hangs up her coat and first thing goes to Sophie.
Goodness, she says quietly. What a little beauty.
Sophie sleeps. Anne stands over the cot for a long time silently, hands folded on her chest.
Can I hold her? she asks finally.
Wait, let her sleep. She has only been asleep for an hour.
Of course, of course. My mother-in-law moves away from the cot, goes to the kitchen, begins to get out the soup. Are you hungry?
A little.
She pours me soup, sets the plate. She sits opposite with a cup of tea Davids tea, with bergamot, which I do not like.
We are silent.
Laura, she begins. I will not interfere in what is not my business.
Good.
But I want to say one thing.
I eat the soup and wait.
He called me. David. Said what he had done. She holds the cup with both hands, looks into it. I will not defend him. He is a fool. He has always been a bit of a fool in these matters something happens in his head and he stops thinking. But he is not a bad person. I know that for certain.
Anne, I say. I am not saying he is bad.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She looks at me. Then nods slowly, as if she has understood something.
You are a clever girl, she says. You have always been cleverer than him. I always told him that.
I am not sure if that is good.
It is good, my mother-in-law says firmly. It is good. Because one of the two has to be clever.
Sophie squeaks from the room. I stand up.
The soup is good, I say. Thank you.
Anne stands up too follows me. Stands in the doorway while I take Sophie.
Can I now? she asks.
I hand her my daughter. My mother-in-law takes her confidently, without fuss, like people who have already held babies. Rocks her.
Sophie, she says. Little Sophie
Sophie stares at her with a look of serious examination.
She looks like David, says Anne. Those the forehead and nose. His.
I see.
And the eyes yours. The expression is not there yet, but you will see later. Definitely yours.
I look at them both. I think that this is one of those things that do not get cancelled. Whatever happens this woman will be Sophies grandmother. This blood, this face, these hands. This is forever.
—
A smile. Probably not a real one the nurse in the hospital said that real smiles start later, that this is a reflex. But she lies in my arms, looks into my face and something happens at the corners of her mouth. Something very small and very specific.
David stands next to me. Sees.
Laura, he says in a whisper. Did you see?
I saw.
Is that a smile?
Probably still a reflex.
Anyway.
We stand next to each other, look at her. The flat is quiet. I think that this is the strangest thing in life: it fits into these few seconds. Next to me stands a person whom I do not trust and whom I love. Or no longer love. Or still love. I do not know myself.
I need to tell you something, he says. Quietly, not turning.
Tell me.
It was not just once.
Pause.
How many?
Three months. About. In the autumn. When you were six and seven months pregnant.
I stand. Sophie yawns widely, with a toothless mouth and closes her eyes.
Then I stopped it myself, David continues. That is true. She wanted to continue, I said no. Said it was a mistake.
And on the discharge day what was it?
That morning she messaged. That she wanted to talk. I came thought, five minutes. Thought, I would explain that we are over, that we have a child. But she started crying, and I could not leave immediately.
You could not leave her. But you could not come to me.
He says nothing.
I slowly lower Sophie into the cot. Straighten up.
Thank you for telling me.
Laura
No. Not now. I raise my hand. I will not decide anything now. That is true. But I need to think. Not three days longer. And you need to give me that time.
How long?
I do not know. I look at him. I need to understand whether I can live with this. Not forgive exactly live. These are different things.
I understand.
I am not sure you do. But okay.
I take the blanket from the chair and cover Sophie. She is already sleeping evenly, trustingly, as only those who still do not need to sort anything out can sleep.
—
A week later I call my friend Emma. We have been friends since university, she lives in another city, but every few days she definitely writes something in the spirit of how is your little one.
Emma, I say. I need to talk.
I can hear it in your voice. Go ahead.
I tell her. Briefly, without details only the main thing. She listens, does not interrupt. Then says:
Laura, I am going to ask you one thing. Just honestly.
Well.
If he had told you himself. Before the discharge. Before you saw. How would you have reacted?
I think.
I do not know. Differently, probably.
There. Emma is silent. This is important, you see? Not what he did that is terrible, and I do not excuse it. But what he chose. To hide. To lie just once. And then only because he realised that you would find out anyway.
Yes.
You are smart. You will work it out yourself. I just want you to know: whatever you decide it is the right decision. Because it is yours.
Emma, you always say that.
Because it is always true.
I laugh. For the first time this week genuinely.
Emma, will you come soon?
As soon as you start going for walks with Sophie, I will come straight away. I need to smell the top of her head, otherwise I will not survive.
You will, I promise. She smells good.
They all smell good. It is an evolutionary trap.
Emma.
What?
Thank you.
You are welcome. Call tomorrow.
I put down the phone. Outside it is already getting dark the short February day ends quickly, rapidly, as if it itself does not much like being. I pour myself some tea, sit by the window.
David comes from the shop brings bags, puts them in the kitchen. Looks in on me.
Will you have tea? he asks. I bought yours there with mint.
I have already poured.
Ah, yes. He hesitates in the doorway. Sophie sleeping?
Yes. Just fed her.
Good.
He goes to the kitchen. I hear him unpacking the bags, something clinking on the fridge shelf. Ordinary sounds of ordinary life. I think that this is what is hardest: when nothing has changed on the outside the same sounds, the same smell, the same blue jacket on the hook and inside something has shifted. And it is unclear whether it will stand back up. And whether it should.
—
I accept it gradually, as big decisions are accepted not in one moment, but in small pieces, a little each day. I watch how David takes Sophie at three in the morning so that I can sleep. How he holds her awkwardly at first and then more confidently. How he talks to her quietly, seriously, as to an adult person who needs an important thing explained.
One time I wake at four in the morning from the silence Sophie is not crying, and that in itself is strange. I get up, go to the room.
David sits in the armchair by the cot. Sophie lies in his arms he holds her carefully, a bit awkwardly with his elbow propped on the armrest. Both sleep. She with mouth slightly open, he head thrown back, with a completely relaxed, almost childlike face.
I stand in the doorway. Then return to bed.
I do not know yet what I will decide. But I think about how this is also true no less than the other. That people are more complicated than what they do on one particular day. That Sophie will know a father who sat with her at four in the morning. And a father who missed the discharge. It is the same face. The same person.
What to do with this that is my question. Only mine.
I look at the ceiling and think.
One evening Sophie is already three weeks old I sit in the kitchen. Sophie sleeps, the flat is quiet. I scroll through something on my phone not reading, just scrolling, as one reads the air. David comes from work, changes clothes, puts the kettle on. Sits opposite.
We are silent for a minute.
How was your day? I ask.
Fine. We finally handed in that documentation. He rubs his face with his palms. Did you sleep?
A couple of hours. Sophie let me sleep.
Good. Pause. I went today.
Where?
To the counsellor. I signed up last week, first time today.
I set the phone aside.
And?
Nothing special yet, he speaks slowly, as if trying the words for weight. I told her. She listened. Asked questions. I realised that I do not know how to answer some questions.
Like what?
Well, for example: What did you feel at that moment? He smiles faintly. I realised that I do not know. That I generally understand poorly what I feel. It has always been like that, probably.
Yes, I say. Probably.
She said it is called alexithymia. When you cannot recognise emotions.
I know that word.
Where from?
Read about it. I look at him. It is not a diagnosis. It is just a characteristic.
She said that too. That it can be worked on.
The kettle whistles. He gets up, pours boiling water. Sets a mug in front of me with mint, mine. Sets one for himself with bergamot.
I hold the mug with both hands.
David, I say. I do not expect you to change in three weeks.
I understand.
And I do not expect you to explain to me why everything happened this way. I have stopped waiting for explanations.
He looks at me.
I am waiting for something else, I continue. That you will be honest. Not because you were caught but of your own accord. Voluntarily. Can you?
I do not know, he says. I will try.
That is an honest answer.
We drink tea. Snow falls outside the window slow, almost reluctant, February.
She smells of milk, David says suddenly. Sophie. Every time I pick her up milk and something else. I do not know how to name it.
Baby soap, probably.
No, something else. He looks out the window. I did not think it would be like this. That you pick her up and just everything, nothing else exists.
Yes, I say. Like that.
—
I raise my head.
Why?
I want to sort it out, he speaks slowly, as if he has thought every word beforehand. Why I do what I do. Why I lied. Why I went there in the morning instead of He stops. I want to understand. Not for you even for myself.
I look at him.
Okay, I say.
This does not mean that you have to decide anything right now.
I know.
I just want you to see.
I see, David.
He nods. Stands up, goes to the sink washes the cups that are there. This is his long-standing habit, which I did not notice before, but now I do: when he feels awkward he washes something.
I look at his back.
The same back as in the café opposite the hospital. The same blue jacket. And at the same time something else. I do not know what exactly. Perhaps just that I am looking differently.
David, I say.
Yes?
We have not finished talking. We still have a lot to talk about.
I know.
And I do not promise how this will end.
I understand.
But I am here for now.
He turns around. Looks at me long, without words. Then nods. Slowly.
I am too.
In the cot in the next room Sophie stirs. I stand up and go to her. She lies with open eyes serious, concentrated, looking at the ceiling.
Hello, I say. What is it?
She turns her head at my voice. And again that same movement in the corners of her lips. Reflex or not it does not matter.
I take her in my arms.
The flat is quiet. Outside the window late February, almost March. Snow lies on the windowsill wet, heavy, no longer wintry. Tomorrow, probably, it will melt.
I stand with Sophie by the window and think about how life is not something that happens once and ends. It is every day anew. Every morning a choice. Sometimes right, sometimes not.
And what is most important not what he chose then. But what I choose now.The bag stands by the bed since last night. I pack it myself nappies, the going-home outfit, tiny sleepsuits in white and yellow stripes that I bought when I was eight months pregnant. The nurse says, By ten in the morning, and I nod as if it is obvious. My husband will answer. My husband will come. My husband is always on time.
I plug my phone in to charge and lie down. My daughter sleeps next to me in a transparent cot small, wrinkled, with dark fuzz on the back of her head. I look at her and think that now everything will be different. That David will understand. That three days in the hospital are three days when men grow up.
At ten in the morning he does not come.
I call he does not pick up. I message he reads but does not reply. Then he messages himself, at half past ten: Be there soon. I put the phone away. The nurse brings documents for signature. The care assistant helps dress Sophie that is what we called her beforehand, even before birth, Sophie.
At eleven he has not come.
I call again. This time he answers voice sleepy, drawn out, as if he has just got up.
David, where are you?
Coming, coming. Traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, he pauses. I am leaving now.
I put down the phone. Sophie fusses in the outfit, blows bubbles. I look out the window there is the grey February courtyard, bare trees, cars along the kerb. Opposite the hospital, across the road, is a café. Small, with yellow letters on the glass. I have seen it for three days from the ward window, but never really looked at it.
Now I look.
At one of the tables by the window sits a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. He sits with his back to me, but I know that back by heart how many times I have looked at it in the dark when he turns to the wall and falls asleep faster than I can say good night.
Opposite him sits a woman. Young. A pram stands next to their table grey, expensive, with large wheels.
I stand by the window for perhaps three minutes. Then I take the bag, ask the care assistant to hold Sophie and go downstairs to the duty nurse.
I need to go out for five minutes, I say. Are the documents all ready?
Ready. But you had better wait for your husband, she looks at me over her glasses.
I wont be long.
I go out through the service exit that Helen the woman in the next bed, who was discharged yesterday showed me. February hits straight away in the face, under the jacket, in the ears. I cross the road, push the café door.
Inside it smells of coffee and cinnamon. Quiet music plays something jazzy, unidentifiable. I see them immediately.
David sits, holding a cup with both hands. He laughs head tilted slightly back, shoulders relaxed. I have not seen him so relaxed, it seems, for three months. Since the bump became noticeable.
The woman says something and smiles. She is attractive fine features, short chestnut hair. From the pram next to them there is no sound the child sleeps.
I approach the table and stand beside it.
David raises his head and the smile disappears from his face as quickly as if someone has pulled the cord.
Laura
Hello, I say. You were supposed to be on your way.
He sets the cup down. The woman looks at me with polite bewilderment.
Laura, wait, this is not
Not what I think? I do not raise my voice. There are several other tables in the café, I feel that people are watching us, but I do not care. You did not answer the phone at ten. Messaged be there soon at half past ten. It is almost twelve now. I stood by the ward window and saw you face to face, David. Almost face to face.
Laura, he stands. Let us go outside.
Why go outside? I need to get back soon Sophie is there.
The woman opposite him sits up a little straighter.
Excuse me, she says. Are you his wife?
Yes.
My name is Rachel. Rachel Miller. I work with David.
I look at her. Then at the pram.
We just happened to meet here, Rachel continues. I live in the neighbouring building. I came in here with my daughter. David apparently came in too. We just started chatting.
How long have you been talking?
Rachel is silent for a moment.
I arrived around nine.
I look at David.
Around nine, I repeat. You were here at nine in the morning. You knew the discharge was at ten.
Laura
Did you know?
I knew, he does not avert his gaze, but something in him shifts such a small, almost unnoticeable bewilderment. I wanted to pop in for a coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, David. Three hours is not five minutes!
In the pram nearby the child stirs. Rachel quickly bends down, adjusts the blanket. Her daughter is probably three months old.
Sorry, Rachel says to me. Quietly, without dramatics. I did not know about the discharge. He did not say.
It is fine, I reply just as quietly. You are not to blame.
I turn to David.
The documents are ready. Park the car by the service exit, I will tell the security guard, he will let you through. Wait there.
And I leave.
—
On the way back across the road I walk slower than on the way there. February no longer seems so sharp perhaps because I warmed up a little in the café, perhaps for another reason. I think about how Sophie does not know anything about discharges yet. That she is three days old, and her main task is to snuffle and eat. That she has her whole life ahead of her, and I want that life to be good.
The care assistant waits for me at the desk with Sophie in her arms.
Well, has he arrived?
He will arrive, I say. He will be here soon.
I take my daughter. She smells of milk and talc, and this smell is so real, so concrete, that everything else the café, the blue jacket, the jazz recedes a little.
The nurse hands over the remaining documents. I sign where indicated. I dress myself, dress Sophie the outfit fastens with three buttons, my hands shake a little, but I manage.
David waits by the service exit. The car stands exactly where I said. He comes out to meet us, reaches to take the bag I hand it over. Then he tries to take Sophie I do not hand her over.
Laura
Later, I say. First home.
He does not argue.
—
In the car we drive in silence.
Sophie sleeps in the car seat I sit in the back, next to her, with my hand on the side. David drives. A pine tree air freshener hangs from the rear window it has been hanging there since December, I always forget to say that it needs to be removed.
Is she sleeping? he asks.
Yes.
Good.
Through the window the February streets stretch grey, with coarse snow along the pavements. Few passers-by. A patch of advertisement on the gable of a building: some bank, some offer.
I look at Sophie. She has a habit in her sleep to slightly open her mouth, as if she is about to say something and puts it off for later. I have already come to love this habit.
Laura, says David.
Later, I answer again.
I just want to say
David. Later.
He falls silent. Red light ahead. He stops the car. Taps his fingers on the steering wheel not hard, almost silently. Habit.
Green. We drive.
I think about how the hospital is left behind. That ahead the flat, in which three days ago I was still a completely different person. Or the same. I do not know.
We park by the entrance. David takes the bag. I take Sophie. We enter the lift. Go up to the sixth floor. He opens the door with the key fumbles with the lock for a long time, as always, because the lock should have been changed long ago, and we kept putting it off.
Welcome home, he says quietly. It is unclear to whom to me or to her.
Thank you, I reply.
—
At home it smells the same as three days ago a bit of coffee, a bit of dust, a bit of his aftershave. In the kitchen sink stand two cups. I count them at once two. Not one.
I put Sophie in the cot we prepared it two months ago, white, with a cloud mobile. Sophie turns her head a little and settles. I go out to the kitchen.
Who was here? I ask.
David stands by the window. Does not turn immediately.
In what sense?
Two cups in the sink. I left for the hospital on Thursday. Today is Sunday. Who drank from the second?
Mum was here.
Your mum came?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I think.
I turn on the tap, take the sponge. Silently wash both cups. Put them to dry.
David, I say, without turning. I want to talk. But not now. I need to feed Sophie and get at least an hours sleep. Then we will talk.
Okay, his voice is cautious, like a person walking on ice and not knowing where it is thin.
And I want you to be honest. Not now later. But honest.
I am honest.
I finally turn.
You sat in the café opposite the hospital from nine in the morning. On the day your daughter is being discharged. You turned off the sound on your phone and did not answer even once until I called myself. That is not honest, David. Even underhand!
He looks at me. In his eyes is that same expression that I learned to read over four years of marriage: not guilt confusion. He does not feel guilt, he feels that he has been caught.
I will explain, he says.
I am listening. But not now. In two hours.
I go to Sophie.
—
She feeds quickly greedily, efficiently, with complete seriousness. I look at her and think: here is a person who needs nothing explained. Who does not need to be told be honest. Who simply needs you all of you, entirely, right now.
I lay her down and lie down myself. I think that I will not be able to sleep but I fall asleep before I reach the end of this thought.
I wake after an hour and a half. Sophie sleeps. The flat is quiet.
David sits in the kitchen coffee in front of him, phone face down. When I enter, he puts the phone in his pocket. Too quickly.
I pour myself some water. Sit opposite.
Speak, I say.
He is silent. Then begins:
Rachel and I have worked together for two years. You know, we were working on one project that tender in November. She went on maternity leave before we finished, there was a lot in short, we talked a lot.
I remember that tender, I say. You came home at ten in the evening. I was in my seventh month.
Yes. He does not deny it. We worked a lot.
And?
And nothing. Just worked. He raises his eyes to me. Laura, I swear, there is nothing between us.
Nothing was? Or nothing is?
Pause. Small, almost unnoticeable but I catch it.
Nothing is, he repeats.
And was there?
He sets the cup on the table.
Laura
Yes or no.
It is more complicated than yes or no.
I nod. Very slowly.
Understood.
Wait. He stretches out his hand, but I do not lean towards it, and he withdraws it. It was long ago. Before you became pregnant. One time. I it was a mistake. I stopped everything myself.
One time.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be in the café opposite the hospital exactly when I was waiting for you.
I went in for a coffee. Saw her. We got talking. Laura, I did not plan it I swear.
You did not plan it, I repeat. You just did not come to your daughters discharge. Not on purpose. It just turned out that way.
He is silent.
I stand. Walk to the window there is the familiar courtyard, trees, cars. I think that three days ago I looked from another window at the same sky.
David, I say, not turning. I will not make a scene. I do not have the strength for that, and honestly, the desire either. We have a three-day-old daughter. I want you to understand one thing.
What?
I would forgive a mistake. I would probably be able to get over it if you had told me yourself. But before I accidentally saw you through the window. You understand the difference?
He is silent.
You did not come to the discharge not because you lingered in the café. You did not come because it was more important for you to sit there. And it is not even about Rachel. It is about what was more important to you.
I turn.
I am not going to make any decisions today. I want you to know that. Today I will feed Sophie and sleep. Tomorrow the same. In a week we will talk again, and you will tell me everything honestly. Not one time, not a mistake honestly. Then I will think.
Laura
That is all I can do right now.
He nods. Very quietly.
Okay.
—
The following few days are strange dense, like cotton wool. Sophie sleeps, eats, looks at the ceiling seriously, with the air of a person solving an important question. David moves around the flat quietly, cooks, goes out twice for nappies, once for my medicine. I do not drive him away and do not call him.
On the third day his mother calls.
I answer the phone, because I am used to answering.
Laura, Annes voice is tense, a bit higher than usual. How are you? How is Sophie?
Fine. Everything is fine.
Listen, I wanted to ask. David is acting strangely. What happened?
Talk to him yourself.
Laura, well
Anne, I say calmly. I love and respect you. But right now I cannot talk about this. I feed the child every three hours and hardly sleep. When I am ready we will talk.
Pause.
Okay, says my mother-in-law. Sorry.
It is unexpected.
I will bring you some soup tomorrow, she adds. Is that all right?
Yes, I say. Thank you.
Anne arrives the next day exactly at midday, with a pot of chicken soup and a bag of pastries. I open the door for her, she comes in, takes off her shoes, hangs up her coat and first thing goes to Sophie.
Goodness, she says quietly. What a little beauty.
Sophie sleeps. Anne stands over the cot for a long time silently, hands folded on her chest.
Can I hold her? she asks finally.
Wait, let her sleep. She has only been asleep for an hour.
Of course, of course. My mother-in-law moves away from the cot, goes to the kitchen, begins to get out the soup. Are you hungry?
A little.
She pours me soup, sets the plate. She sits opposite with a cup of tea Davids tea, with bergamot, which I do not like.
We are silent.
Laura, she begins. I will not interfere in what is not my business.
Good.
But I want to say one thing.
I eat the soup and wait.
He called me. David. Said what he had done. She holds the cup with both hands, looks into it. I will not defend him. He is a fool. He has always been a bit of a fool in these matters something happens in his head and he stops thinking. But he is not a bad person. I know that for certain.
Anne, I say. I am not saying he is bad.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She looks at me. Then nods slowly, as if she has understood something.
You are a clever girl, she says. You have always been cleverer than him. I always told him that.
I am not sure if that is good.
It is good, my mother-in-law says firmly. It is good. Because one of the two has to be clever.
Sophie squeaks from the room. I stand up.
The soup is good, I say. Thank you.
Anne stands up too follows me. Stands in the doorway while I take Sophie.
Can I now? she asks.
I hand her my daughter. My mother-in-law takes her confidently, without fuss, like people who have already held babies. Rocks her.
Sophie, she says. Little Sophie
Sophie stares at her with a look of serious examination.
She looks like David, says Anne. Those the forehead and nose. His.
I see.
And the eyes yours. The expression is not there yet, but you will see later. Definitely yours.
I look at them both. I think that this is one of those things that do not get cancelled. Whatever happens this woman will be Sophies grandmother. This blood, this face, these hands. This is forever.
—
A smile. Probably not a real one the nurse in the hospital said that real smiles start later, that this is a reflex. But she lies in my arms, looks into my face and something happens at the corners of her mouth. Something very small and very specific.
David stands next to me. Sees.
Laura, he says in a whisper. Did you see?
I saw.
Is that a smile?
Probably still a reflex.
Anyway.
We stand next to each other, look at her. The flat is quiet. I think that this is the strangest thing in life: it fits into these few seconds. Next to me stands a person whom I do not trust and whom I love. Or no longer love. Or still love. I do not know myself.
I need to tell you something, he says. Quietly, not turning.
Tell me.
It was not just once.
Pause.
How many?
Three months. About. In the autumn. When you were six and seven months pregnant.
I stand. Sophie yawns widely, with a toothless mouth and closes her eyes.
Then I stopped it myself, David continues. That is true. She wanted to continue, I said no. Said it was a mistake.
And on the discharge day what was it?
That morning she messaged. That she wanted to talk. I came thought, five minutes. Thought, I would explain that we are over, that we have a child. But she started crying, and I could not leave immediately.
You could not leave her. But you could not come to me.
He says nothing.
I slowly lower Sophie into the cot. Straighten up.
Thank you for telling me.
Laura
No. Not now. I raise my hand. I will not decide anything now. That is true. But I need to think. Not three days longer. And you need to give me that time.
How long?
I do not know. I look at him. I need to understand whether I can live with this. Not forgive exactly live. These are different things.
I understand.
I am not sure you do. But okay.
I take the blanket from the chair and cover Sophie. She is already sleeping evenly, trustingly, as only those who still do not need to sort anything out can sleep.
—
A week later I call my friend Emma. We have been friends since university, she lives in another city, but every few days she definitely writes something in the spirit of how is your little one.
Emma, I say. I need to talk.
I can hear it in your voice. Go ahead.
I tell her. Briefly, without details only the main thing. She listens, does not interrupt. Then says:
Laura, I am going to ask you one thing. Just honestly.
Well.
If he had told you himself. Before the discharge. Before you saw. How would you have reacted?
I think.
I do not know. Differently, probably.
There. Emma is silent. This is important, you see? Not what he did that is terrible, and I do not excuse it. But what he chose. To hide. To lie just once. And then only because he realised that you would find out anyway.
Yes.
You are smart. You will work it out yourself. I just want you to know: whatever you decide it is the right decision. Because it is yours.
Emma, you always say that.
Because it is always true.
I laugh. For the first time this week genuinely.
Emma, will you come soon?
As soon as you start going for walks with Sophie, I will come straight away. I need to smell the top of her head, otherwise I will not survive.
You will, I promise. She smells good.
They all smell good. It is an evolutionary trap.
Emma.
What?
Thank you.
You are welcome. Call tomorrow.
I put down the phone. Outside it is already getting dark the short February day ends quickly, rapidly, as if it itself does not much like being. I pour myself some tea, sit by the window.
David comes from the shop brings bags, puts them in the kitchen. Looks in on me.
Will you have tea? he asks. I bought yours there with mint.
I have already poured.
Ah, yes. He hesitates in the doorway. Sophie sleeping?
Yes. Just fed her.
Good.
He goes to the kitchen. I hear him unpacking the bags, something clinking on the fridge shelf. Ordinary sounds of ordinary life. I think that this is what is hardest: when nothing has changed on the outside the same sounds, the same smell, the same blue jacket on the hook and inside something has shifted. And it is unclear whether it will stand back up. And whether it should.
—
I accept it gradually, as big decisions are accepted not in one moment, but in small pieces, a little each day. I watch how David takes Sophie at three in the morning so that I can sleep. How he holds her awkwardly at first and then more confidently. How he talks to her quietly, seriously, as to an adult person who needs an important thing explained.
One time I wake at four in the morning from the silence Sophie is not crying, and that in itself is strange. I get up, go to the room.
David sits in the armchair by the cot. Sophie lies in his arms he holds her carefully, a bit awkwardly with his elbow propped on the armrest. Both sleep. She with mouth slightly open, he head thrown back, with a completely relaxed, almost childlike face.
I stand in the doorway. Then return to bed.
I do not know yet what I will decide. But I think about how this is also true no less than the other. That people are more complicated than what they do on one particular day. That Sophie will know a father who sat with her at four in the morning. And a father who missed the discharge. It is the same face. The same person.
What to do with this that is my question. Only mine.
I look at the ceiling and think.
One evening Sophie is already three weeks old I sit in the kitchen. Sophie sleeps, the flat is quiet. I scroll through something on my phone not reading, just scrolling, as one reads the air. David comes from work, changes clothes, puts the kettle on. Sits opposite.
We are silent for a minute.
How was your day? I ask.
Fine. We finally handed in that documentation. He rubs his face with his palms. Did you sleep?
A couple of hours. Sophie let me sleep.
Good. Pause. I went today.
Where?
To the counsellor. I signed up last week, first time today.
I set the phone aside.
And?
Nothing special yet, he speaks slowly, as if trying the words for weight. I told her. She listened. Asked questions. I realised that I do not know how to answer some questions.
Like what?
Well, for example: What did you feel at that moment? He smiles faintly. I realised that I do not know. That I generally understand poorly what I feel. It has always been like that, probably.
Yes, I say. Probably.
She said it is called alexithymia. When you cannot recognise emotions.
I know that word.
Where from?
Read about it. I look at him. It is not a diagnosis. It is just a characteristic.
She said that too. That it can be worked on.
The kettle whistles. He gets up, pours boiling water. Sets a mug in front of me with mint, mine. Sets one for himself with bergamot.
I hold the mug with both hands.
David, I say. I do not expect you to change in three weeks.
I understand.
And I do not expect you to explain to me why everything happened this way. I have stopped waiting for explanations.
He looks at me.
I am waiting for something else, I continue. That you will be honest. Not because you were caught but of your own accord. Voluntarily. Can you?
I do not know, he says. I will try.
That is an honest answer.
We drink tea. Snow falls outside the window slow, almost reluctant, February.
She smells of milk, David says suddenly. Sophie. Every time I pick her up milk and something else. I do not know how to name it.
Baby soap, probably.
No, something else. He looks out the window. I did not think it would be like this. That you pick her up and just everything, nothing else exists.
Yes, I say. Like that.
—
I raise my head.
Why?
I want to sort it out, he speaks slowly, as if he has thought every word beforehand. Why I do what I do. Why I lied. Why I went there in the morning instead of He stops. I want to understand. Not for you even for myself.
I look at him.
Okay, I say.
This does not mean that you have to decide anything right now.
I know.
I just want you to see.
I see, David.
He nods. Stands up, goes to the sink washes the cups that are there. This is his long-standing habit, which I did not notice before, but now I do: when he feels awkward he washes something.
I look at his back.
The same back as in the café opposite the hospital. The same blue jacket. And at the same time something else. I do not know what exactly. Perhaps just that I am looking differently.
David, I say.
Yes?
We have not finished talking. We still have a lot to talk about.
I know.
And I do not promise how this will end.
I understand.
But I am here for now.
He turns around. Looks at me long, without words. Then nods. Slowly.
I am too.
In the cot in the next room Sophie stirs. I stand up and go to her. She lies with open eyes serious, concentrated, looking at the ceiling.
Hello, I say. What is it?
She turns her head at my voice. And again that same movement in the corners of her lips. Reflex or not it does not matter.
I take her in my arms.
The flat is quiet. Outside the window late February, almost March. Snow lies on the windowsill wet, heavy, no longer wintry. Tomorrow, probably, it will melt.
I stand with Sophie by the window and think about how life is not something that happens once and ends. It is every day anew. Every morning a choice. Sometimes right, sometimes not.
And what is most important not what he chose then. But what I choose now.
