For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
Linda waved her hand like she was brushing away a fly.
“Don’t be dramatic, dear.”
Lily stepped closer to the bassinet. “He’s beautiful…”
“Don’t,” I said quickly.
My arms tightened around my son.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
The front door swung open. Ryan walked in, a white paper bag in his hand.
His eyes found mine for a moment, then drifted, resting on Lily a heartbeat too long.
“Oh, my little one…” he finally said, looking at our son. “I’m so sorry, I had to rush to a work thing. Mom was supposed to pick you up. Are you okay?”
“Put the bag down. We need to talk.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
Linda stepped between us, like she had been waiting for her cue. Her tone carried that little smirk you hear without seeing.
“After Emily rests. Hormones, you know.”
I agreed only because it was time to feed the baby. I just went upstairs to the nursery and closed the door behind me. I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t. My son needed me.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
For illustration purposes only | Source: Shutterstock
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