My bag was packed the night before. I made sure of it myself muslin cloths, the special blanket for discharge day, tiny, white-and-yellow striped babygrows Id bought when I was eight months along. The nurse had said, Ready at ten oclock, and I nodded, as if it was a given. My husband would answer. My husband would be there. My husband was always punctual.
I put my phone on charge and got into bed. My daughter slept beside me in the transparent cot so small, all wrinkled skin, with a tuft of dark hair at the back of her head. I kept looking at her, telling myself everything would be different now. That Tom would realise that. These three days in hospital somehow, men grew up a bit in that time.
He didnt come at ten.
I called. He didnt pick up. I messaged. He read it, but didnt reply. He finally wrote back at half eleven: Be there soon. I put the phone away. The nurse brought a stack of papers for official signing. The ward assistant helped me dress Lottie thats what wed called her from the start, even before she was born. Lottie.
He still didnt come at eleven.
I rang again. This time he answered, voice thick with sleep, as though hed just woken up.
Tom, where are you?
On my way. Just traffic.
Traffic? On a Sunday?
He paused. Just leaving now.
I ended the call. Lottie was wriggling in her blanket, blowing bubbles. I gazed out the window the view was bleak, typical February, bare trees and a handful of cars along the kerb. Across the street, opposite the maternity unit, was a café. Small, with yellow lettering in the window. Id seen it these three days but never really looked.
Now I did.
At one of the tables by the window, I noticed a man. Navy parka, dark hair. He was sitting with his back to me, but I knew that shape. So many times Id watched him roll over to sleep before I could say goodnight.
Across from him sat a woman. She looked young. There was a pram tucked by their table a smart, grey one with chunky wheels.
I mustve stood at the window three whole minutes. Then I grabbed my bag, asked the assistant to mind Lottie, and went down to the ward desk.
I need to step outside for five minutes, I told the nurse. Are all the forms ready?
They are. But best to wait for your husband, she replied, peering over her glasses.
I wont be long.
I slipped out the staff door a trick Id picked up from Jen, my roommate, whod left the day before. February air hit my face, whipped into my coat collar, invaded my ears. I crossed over and pushed open the café door.
Inside was warm, scented with coffee and cinnamon. Some soft jazz played in the background. I spotted them straight away.
Tom sat clutching his mug. He was laughing head tilted back, shoulders slack. I hadnt seen him look that relaxed in months not since my bump began to show.
The woman was saying something, smiling. She was pretty delicate features, short chestnut hair. The baby in her pram slept soundly.
I walked over to their table and paused beside them.
Tom saw me, and his smile disappeared, as if someone had yanked a plug.
Holly
Morning, I said. Werent you just leaving?
He set down his cup. The woman looked up at me, awkward but polite.
Holly, wait, its not
Not what I think it is? My voice was calm, though I was aware of other tables watching, but I didnt care. You ignored my call at ten. Said be there soon at half eleven. Now its nearly midday. I saw you, Tom. From the window.
Holly He stood. Lets talk outside.
Why? I need to go back soon Lotties waiting.
The woman straightened a little.
Im sorry, she said quietly. Are you his wife?
Yes.
Im Kate. Kate Partridge. I work with Tom.
I looked at her, then at the pram.
We just bumped into each other, Kate continued. I live nearby, came in for a coffee with my daughter. Tom mustve just popped in. We started chatting.
How long have you been here?
Kate hesitated.
I came in around nine.
I looked at Tom.
Around nine, I repeated. You were here at nine. You knew my discharge was at ten.
Holly
You knew?
He met my gaze, something shifting a flicker of hesitation, barely visible. I just wanted a coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, Tom. Three hours is not five minutes!
The baby in the pram stirred. Kate quickly tucked in the blanket, soothing her. Her daughter couldnt have been more than three months old.
Sorry, Kate murmured to me, sincere, unaffected. I didnt know about the discharge. He didnt mention.
Thats all right, I replied, just as softly. Its not your fault.
I turned to Tom.
All the paperwork is sorted. Park by the staff entrance. Ill tell security. Wait there.
And I left.
—
Crossing back over, I moved slower than before. The February wind didnt sting as much maybe I was warmed by the coffee shop, or maybe for another reason entirely. I thought of Lottie, who didnt care yet about discharge times or waiting. She was just three days old. Her main job was to breathe and eat. Her life ahead of her, and I wanted it all to be good.
The assistant waited with Lottie at the desk.
So? Did he arrive? she asked.
He will, I answered. Hes on his way.
I took my daughter. She smelt of milk and talcum powder the most specific, grounding scent, pushing all that café, all that jazz, all that navy coat, away.
The nurse handed me the remaining forms. I signed where I was shown. Got dressed, bundled up Lottie the blanket fastened with three poppers; my hands shook, but I managed.
Tom waited by the staff door, exactly where Id directed. The car was parked right outside. He reached for my bag I gave it to him. When he reached for Lottie, I held her closer.
Hol
Later, I said. Lets just go home.
He didnt argue.
We were silent in the car.
Lottie dozed in her car seat. I sat in the back with her, my hand on her side. Tom drove. There was an old tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rear mirror leftover from December, and I always forgot to mention it should go.
She asleep? he asked.
Yes.
Good.
The streets outside slid by, grey and gritty with the leftover snow against the kerbs. Few people about. A billboard on a block of flats some bank, some offer.
I watched Lottie. She had a habit of falling asleep with her mouth ever so slightly open, like she wanted to say something but would save it for later. I loved that about her already.
Holly, Tom said suddenly.
Later, I repeated.
I just want to
Tom. Later.
He went quiet. Red light ahead. He tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. Habit.
Green. We moved off.
I thought how the hospital was already behind us. The flat ahead three days ago, Id left as someone entirely different. Or maybe, not. I couldnt tell.
We parked. Tom took the bag this time. I took Lottie. We squeezed into the lift, went up to the sixth. He fiddled with the lock far too long, as usual it had needed changing for ages, but we kept putting it off.
Welcome home, he said quietly. It was unclear if it was to me or her.
Thanks, I replied.
—
Home smelt exactly like it had three days before a tangle of coffee, a hint of dust, a faint note of his aftershave. In the kitchen sink, I spotted two mugs. Straight away, I noticed: not one, but two.
I tucked Lottie in her cot the one wed prepared for months, white, with the little mobile of clouds above. She wriggled her head side to side and stilled. I went to the kitchen.
Whos been here? I asked.
Tom stood by the window, pausing.
In what sense?
Two mugs in the sink. I left for hospital Thursday. Its Sunday now. Who had the second mug?
Mum popped by.
Your mum?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I think.
I turned on the tap, grabbed the sponge, and washed both mugs in silence. Set them on the rack.
Tom, I said, still turned away. We need to talk. But not right now. I have to feed Lottie, and I need some sleep. After that, well talk.
Okay, he replied, carefully, as if walking on ice.
And when we do, I need you to be honest. Not now, but then. Honest, Tom.
I am.
I turned to him finally.
You sat in that café across from the hospital from nine in the morning. On your daughters discharge day. You muted your phone and never picked up until I rang twice. Thats not honest, Tom. Thats almost cruel.
He held my gaze. In his eyes, I saw that look Id come to recognise after four years of marriage: not guilt, but confusion. He didnt feel guilty; he felt caught out.
Ill explain, he said.
Im listening. Later. Give me two hours.
I went to Lottie.
—
She fed quickly hungry, businesslike, all focus. I watched her and thought: here is someone who doesnt need explanations. Doesnt need to be asked for honesty. Just needs me, all of me, right now.
I settled her down and fell asleep before Id finished the thought that I wouldnt.
I woke an hour and a half later. Lottie was still asleep. All quiet.
Tom sat in the kitchen, coffee in front of him, his phone facedown. When I came in, he shoved it into his pocket too fast.
I poured a glass of water. Sat across from him.
Speak, I said.
He was silent a moment, then began:
Kate and I have worked together nearly two years. You remember that big project last November, the one where she went on maternity leave before the end, we communicated loads
I remember. Youd come home at ten at night. I was seven months.
He nodded. A lot of work.
And?
And nothing. It was all work. He met my eyes. Hol, I promise, theres nothing between us.
Theres nothing now? Or there wasnt ever?
He hesitated just for a moment, but I caught it.
Theres nothing.
But there was?
He put his cup down.
Holly
Yes or no.
Its its not that simple.
I nodded, very slowly.
I see.
Wait. He tried to reach for me, but I pulled back and he let go. It was ages ago. Before you got pregnant. Just once. It was a mistake, and it ended there. I stopped it.
Once.
Yes.
And today, you just happened to be sitting in the café across from the maternity hospital, exactly when I was waiting for you.
I went for a coffee. Saw her. We started talking. I didnt mean honestly.
You didnt mean. You just didnt turn up for your daughters discharge. Not on purpose. It just happened.
He fell silent.
I stood up, walked to the window. Same courtyard, same trees, same cars. Three days ago, Id looked at a different sky from a different window.
Tom, I said, still facing out. Im not going to make a scene. I havent the strength or the interest. Our daughter is three days old. I want you to understand one thing.
What?
I could forgive a mistake. I probably could get past it, if youd told me yourself. But before I saw you, not after. Understand the difference?
He said nothing.
You didnt miss Lotties discharge because you lost track in a café. You didnt come because you wanted to be there more than you wanted to be here. And that matters not Kate, but what you chose.
I turned to him.
Im not making any decisions today. I want you to know that. Today, Im feeding Lottie and sleeping. Tomorrow, too. In a week well talk again, and youll tell me everything. Not once, not mistake, but all of it. Then Ill think.
Holly
Thats the best I can do right now.
He nodded, almost inaudible.
Okay.
—
The next few days felt foggy, slow. Lottie slept, ate, stared at the ceiling always intently, as if working out some great puzzle. Tom moved softly round the flat, making meals, popping out for more nappies, fetching my paracetamol. I neither sent him away nor asked him to stay.
On the third day, his mum rang.
I answered out of habit.
Holly, Marys voice was tight, a notch higher than usual. How are you? And Lottie?
Were okay. All fine.
I wanted to ask Toms acting a bit odd. Whats going on?
Youll have to ask him.
Holly, come on
Mary, I said, calm and measured. I love you, and respect you. But now isnt a good time. Im feeding a baby every three hours and barely sleep. When Im up for it, well talk.
A pause.
All right, she said. Sorry.
That surprised me.
Ill bring some soup tomorrow, she offered. Is that okay?
That would be lovely. Thank you.
She arrived at midday chicken soup in a Tupperware and bag of scones in tow. I let her in; she slipped off her boots and put her coat away. First thing, she went to Lottie.
Oh bless, she whispered. Shes beautiful.
Lottie was dozing. Mary stood by her cot a long while arms folded on her chest, just gazing.
Can I hold her? she finally asked.
Wait, let her sleep. Shes just gone down.
Of course, of course. She moved to the kitchen, started unpacking the soup. Are you hungry?
A bit.
She poured a bowl, put it in front of me, sat across with a cup of Earl Grey Toms favourite, not mine.
We sat in silence.
Holly, she began. I wont pry.
Okay.
But I want to say something.
I ate soup and waited.
He called me Tom. Said hes messed up. She held her mug with both hands. I wont defend him. Hes an idiot. He always was a bit daft about feelings brain short-circuits, stops thinking right. But hes not a bad man. Not a bad heart in him, I know that.
Mary, I said. Ive never thought he was bad.
You havent?
No. That would be easier, in fact.
She regarded me a moment, then nodded slowly, as though something clicked.
Youre a clever girl, she said. Cleverer than him. Ive always told him that.
Im not sure its a good thing.
It is, she replied, firmly. Someone has to be, in any pair.
Lottie squeaked from the other room. I got up.
Soups good, thanks.
Mary followed to Lotties cot and waited at the door as I picked up my daughter.
Can I now?
I handed Lottie to her. Mary held her deftly, no fuss, the way people do who know babies. She bounced her a little.
Lottie, she murmured. Lottie-lu
Lottie stared up at her, serious and studious.
She has Toms face the brow, that nose. Just like.
I noticed.
But shes got your eyes. Youll see, when shes older.
I watched them. I thought: this is a thing that cant be undone. Whatever happens, this woman will always be Lotties grandma. Those hands, that face, that blood. Its forever.
—
A smile, maybe not real yet the nurses say the real ones come later, its just a reflex now. But she lay in my arms, looked up at me, and something happened at the corners of her mouth. So tiny, so certain.
Tom saw it, too.
Holly, he whispered. Did you see?
I did.
Was that a smile?
Probably still a reflex.
Still its something.
We stood there, side by side, watching her. The flat was silent. It struck me how bizarre life is, that it can be contained in these seconds, standing next to someone you dont trust, yet you love them. Or perhaps not. Or maybe you still do. You dont even know.
I need to tell you something, he said. Quiet, not facing me.
Go on.
It wasnt just once.
Pause.
How many?
About three months. Autumn. When you were six, seven months pregnant.
I stood there. Lottie yawned, enormous, toothless, and drifted off.
I ended it myself, Tom continued. Thats the truth. She wanted to keep going, but I finished it. Told her it was wrong.
And on discharge day?
She messaged the morning of, said she needed to talk. I thought Id explain it was over, we had our child now. But she got upset, and I couldnt just walk out immediately.
So you couldnt leave her, but you could not come to me.
He had no answer.
I gently placed Lottie in her cot. Straightened up.
Thank you for telling me.
Holly
No. Not now. I raised my hand. Im not making any decisions now. I need time not a few days, longer. And you need to give me that.
How long?
I dont know. I looked straight at him. I have to decide if I can live with this. Not forgive, live with. Theres a difference.
I understand.
You might not, but thats fine.
I picked up a throw and covered Lottie. She slept utterly still, trusting, the way only someone who doesnt yet need to make sense of anything can.
—
A week later, I rang my old friend, Emma. Wed known each other since university, though she lived quite far now, but she always messaged every few days: Hows your little one?
Em, I began. I need to talk.
I can tell. Go ahead.
I told her, bluntly, just the facts. She listened, then asked:
Holly, answer me one thing. Be honest.
Okay.
If hed told you himself, before the discharge, before you saw him how would you have reacted?
I thought.
Differently, I think.
Right. Emma paused. This matters. Not what he did which is awful, but what he chose. He chose to hide it. Lied just once. And only told the truth because he thought youd found him out.
Yes.
Youll work it out. I just want you to know: whatever you decide, its the right decision. Because its yours.
You always say that.
Its always true.
I laughed for the first time that week, properly.
Will you visit soon? I asked.
Soon as youre up for walks with Lottie, Im there. I need to sniff that baby head or Ill perish.
Youll get your chance she smells lovely.
They all do. Evolutions dirty trick.
Em?
What?
Thank you.
No worries. Call me tomorrow.
When I hung up, dusk was falling those short February afternoons gone in a blink, as though the world was eager for bedtime. I brewed tea, sat by the window.
Tom came back from Tesco, bags in hand. He looked in.
Fancy a cuppa? he offered. Got the mint ones you like.
Ive just made some.
Ah, right. Lottie asleep?
Just fed her. Out like a light.
Good.
He put away shopping. I heard him moving about the familiar sounds of ordinary life. I realised that this was the hardest part: nothing changed on the surface same sounds, same smells, that navy coat but something inside had shifted. And there was no telling if it’d ever go back. Or if it should.
—
I forgave him gradually, the way you make big choices not all at once, but in tiny increments, bit by bit, each day. I watched Tom take Lottie at three in the morning so I could sleep. How he fumbled at first then grew sure. How he spoke to her serious, quietly, like she was an adult to explain a real thing to.
Once I woke at four to silence which was odd, as Lottie always made little noises. I went to check.
Tom was asleep in the armchair beside her cot. He cradled her awkwardly, elbow propped just so. Both sound asleep: she with her mouth open, he slumped back, face soft and childlike.
I stood in the doorway, then went back to bed.
I didnt know then how Id decide. But I knew this was true, too just as true as the other things. People are more than the worst thing they do on a single day. Lottie would know her dad both as the man who sat up with her at four and the one who missed her discharge. Same face. Same heart.
What I did with that that was down to me, and only me.
I lay there staring at the ceiling.
One evening Lottie was three weeks old I found myself in the kitchen. She was asleep, the flat was quiet, I scrolled idly on my phone. Tom came back, changed, put the kettle on. Sat across from me.
We sat in silence for a minute.
How was your day? I asked.
Fine. Finally finished that set of reports. He rubbed his eyes. You get any sleep?
Couple of hours. Lottie let me.
Good. He hesitated. I went somewhere today.
Oh?
To a counsellor. Booked it last week, today was my first session.
I put my phone down.
And?
Nothing special to report yet, he said, his words deliberate, awkward. I talked. She listened. Asked questions. I realised I cant answer some of them.
Which questions?
Like, How did you feel in that moment? He managed a wry smile. I realised I dont know. Maybe I never did.
Maybe, I said.
She gave it a name alexithymia. Not understanding your own feelings.
I know it, I said. Read about it once.
She said its not a disease. Its something you can work on.
The kettle whistled. He made us both tea mint for me, Earl Grey for him.
I cradled my mug in both hands.
Tom, I said. I dont expect you to change in three weeks.
I know.
And I dont expect you to explain everything. Ive stopped hoping for explanations.
He looked at me.
Theres just one thing I want, I said. Be truthful. Not just when youre caught but for yourself. Do you think you can do that?
I dont know, he admitted. I can try.
Thats honest.
We drank our tea as slow, reluctant February snow fell outside.
She smells like milk, Tom said, out of nowhere. Every time I hold her its milk, and something else I cant name.
Baby soap, maybe.
No, its different. He stared at the dark outside. Didnt think itd be like this. Hold her and the world just stops.
Its like that, I said.
I raised my eyes to him.
Why are you doing this? I asked.
I need to understand why I did what I did. Why I lied. Why I went there that morning instead of He trailed off. I need to know. Not for you. For myself.
I kept looking at him.
All right, I said.
And it doesnt mean you have to make any decisions now.
I know.
I just want you to know Im trying to be seen.
I see you, Tom.
He nodded, got up, and washed the mugs from earlier. An old habit of his, only now I noticed: whenever he was nervous, he started washing up.
I looked at his back.
The same back Id seen in the café. The same navy parka. And yet something different. Maybe Id changed how I looked at it.
Tom, I said.
Yes?
We havent finished talking. Not for a long time.
I know.
And I cant promise where itll end.
I understand.
But Im here for now.
He turned. Looked at me for a long time, not speaking. Then nodded, slowly.
So am I.
Lottie stirred in her cot next door. I got up and went to her. She lay with eyes wide open intent, serious, fixated on the ceiling.
Hey, I whispered. Whats the matter?
She turned her head toward my voice. And again movement at the corners of her mouth. Reflex or not, it didnt matter.
I picked her up.
The flat was still. Outside was February giving way to March, snow heavy on the sill, ready to melt. Tomorrow, maybe, it would be gone.
I stood with Lottie at the window and realised: life isnt what happens once and then ends. Its each day, starting over. Every morning, another choice. Sometimes the right one, sometimes not.
And the most important thing wasnt what he chose that day but what I choose now.
