And traumatized.
All because his mother decided to sleep like a corpse in a crypt.
"Caroline, you irresponsible troll, MOVE—"
I crash into the nursery door, shove it open—and freeze. He's not here.
Empty crib.
Empty room.
Empty everything.
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
"Oh my God. Where—"
Then I hear it.
Zach's voice drifting up from downstairs, except it'snothis normal voice — it's his ridiculous cartoon-baby voice.
And just like that, oxygen returns to my body.
I exhale so hard I almost pass out.
My legs wobble as I take the stairs two at a time, following the sound like some kind of deranged bloodhound.
I find them in the living room.
Zach sprawls across our white U-shaped sectional like some kind of half-dressed Greek deity on paternity leave. His dark hair is a mess, his sweatpants are hanging dangerously low, and honestly?
This is rude. I'm pregnant and hormonal — he can't just sit there looking like a walking fertility test.
Our son, Sammy — one year old, chubby thighs, curls everywhere, drool machine extraordinaire — is sitting on his lap, gnawing on a toy giraffe.
Zach looks like pure devotion in human form.
Soft eyes, gentle hands, talking to our son like he's the single greatest miracle to ever exist.
"See that?" Zach says, pointing at the TV. "That's Mommy right there."
I follow his finger.
Then I see it.
My jaw drops.
My cheeks detonate.
Oh. My. God.
"ZACHARY. JAMES. WESTBROOK."
His head whips toward me, and he grins like a wolf who's been caught stealing cookies.
"Oh hey, baby. Interesting choice of greeting for your husband, Mrs. Westbrook."
I march toward the coffee table to grab the remote but he already has it, the little menace, and he lifts it high with Olympic-level smugness.
