Six days after giving birth, I was still recovering.
My body hurt. I barely slept. Every few hours, I was feeding our newborn daughter, Wren, changing her, or simply holding her against my chest while trying to convince myself that the exhaustion would eventually pass.
I was still wearing my hospital bracelet.
Then my husband, Roland, came downstairs wearing his navy dinner jacket.
He looked ready for an evening out.
I was standing beside the kitchen island, warming a bowl of soup a neighbor had left on our porch.
Wren was sleeping against my chest.
“Faye’s having everyone over,” Roland said as he reached for my car keys. “Mom leaves for Savannah tomorrow.”
I looked at him.
“What time are we going?”
He hesitated.
“It would be easier if you stayed home.”
I thought I had misunderstood him.
“What?”
“The drive is too much for Wren,” he said. “Faye’s house will be crowded. You should rest.”
His own SUV was at the dealership, which meant he had been using my Camry.
The infant-seat base was already inside it.
So was Wren’s diaper bag.
“You’re taking my car?”
“Just for a few hours.”
“And leaving us here?”
Instead of answering, Roland looked down at his phone.
“It’s just a family dinner, Simone. Please don’t make this difficult.”
Then he walked out.
The front door closed.
A few moments later, I watched my car back out of the driveway.
My husband was driving away in the only vehicle we had that was properly equipped for our newborn.
And he had left me behind.
I stood there for several seconds, unable to process what had just happened.
Then my phone lit up.
It was a private message from Roland’s mother.
