The nursery walls were painted a soft, hopeful yellow. A white crib stood beneath the window—the same crib Emma and I had built together three months before our son arrived. I could still hear her laughing when I struggled with the instructions, still see the way she finally took over, finishing it effortlessly while I handed her screws and pretended to be offended. Back then, I’d believed that was happiness. Now I stood in that room, staring at our two-week-old baby sleeping peacefully, and felt something colder than doubt settle into my bones. “Marcus?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway....
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