She moved carefully, one hand braced against her abdomen, her face pale with exhaustion.
Without the panic of the hospital around her, she looked younger than I remembered.
Maybe twenty-eight.
Maybe thirty.
I was thirty-four.
The baby slept beneath a blue blanket.
Aubrey stopped when she saw me.
Her eyes moved instinctively toward my stomach before shame pulled them back to my face.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“I almost didn’t.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
She lowered her gaze.
“You’re right.”
We sat across from each other.
The stroller remained beside her, positioned so she could see the baby’s face.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Aubrey pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I knew Grant was married.”
The directness surprised me.
“I’m not going to insult you by pretending I didn’t.”
“Good.”
“He told me you had been separated emotionally for years.”
“He said you lived together because of finances, appearances, and pressure from his mother.”
“We shared a bed.”
Aubrey’s face tightened.
“He told me you had separate rooms.”
“He told me you did not want children.”
I looked at the baby.
“That part was convenient.”
“I believed him.”
