He kept talking as he carefully adjusted her position in his arms.
“A Moses basket — hand-carved walnut. Cream linens. Her name embroidered once we choose it.”
My breath caught.
“There’s a changing station,” he continued.
“A rocking chair upholstered in that soft grey cashmere you like.”
He glanced at me briefly. “Blackout curtains so she can sleep during the day.”
He shifted slightly to support her better.
“The walls are painted the shade of dove grey you once said calms you.”
He knew.
He had thought about this.
Planned it.
Designed it.
Even while locked in a prison cell.
My anger flickered — confused by the tenderness wrapped around it.
I opened my mouth to protest.
We weren’t sharing a room.
We weren’t playing house.
We were barely surviving an uneasy truce.
But he was already moving.
Slow. Measured.
His limp was impossible to hide.
He walked toward the grand staircase, holding our daughter like she was made of glass — protecting her with everything he had left.
His injury was severe. The damage to his leg was obvious now, dragging with every step he took.
Had it happened before he visited me at the hospital five days after I gave birth? Or did it happen after?
He was in clear agony.
Each step up the staircase pulled brutally at the injured muscle. His jaw clenched tight, tendons standing out in his neck as pain shot through him.
His breathing shifted — controlled, strained — as if he refused to let anyone see how badly it hurt.
But it did hurt.
Badly.
And he was forcing himself to keep moving anyway.
