“Oh, sweetie,” she says, then looks to me. “Cody,” she scolds, unimpressed.
“She liked them yesterday just fine.” I shrug.
She steps closer, grabbing a washcloth.
I stop her. “I’ll clean her up, don’t worry about it.”
“Well no, now she needs a bath.” She starts wiping her down.
“You think?”
“Babe, it’s in her hair. Yes.” Karissa groans, pulling Emma out of the seat. More eggs tumble from her lap, splatting on the floor.
I laugh, hands up. “I thought she was eating them, so I kept giving her more.”
Karissa barely cracks a smile. “Think again,” she mutters, holding Emma out like she’s radioactive. Emma just laughs, kicking her legs, reaching for her mom.
But Karissa’s already in her dress, ready for church. I step in. “Hon, you’re dressed. I’ll give her a bath and clean this up.”
Her eyes flick to the clock. “We’ll be late. I’ll clean this up. You can do the bath.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll watch her better next time.”
“And you’ll give her a pancake instead,” she says, handing Emma off to me and reaching for the high chair tray.
I get her undressed and into the tub, letting her splash for a few minutes before I even think about soap. She loves baths. I know the second I pull her out it’s going to be a cry fest, so I let her have a few minutes of fun.
Something in the trash can catches my eye. A piece of blue plastic. The kind I’ve seen once before. My stomach knots, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m already pulling it out.
It saysNot Pregnant.
I tilt the trash can toward me, checking to see if it’s the only one. It is. But that doesn’t stop the questions coming to my mind all at once.
I didn’t even know she had tests. We haven’t talked about another kid.
After everything this past season—the depression, the way she struggled to connect with Emma while I was working nonstop, the whole reason she started therapy—it never felt like more kids was anywhere on her radar. Even when Ella got pregnant again so soon, Karissa’s reaction wasn’t excitement, it was pure…confusion.
I set the test on the counter, finish washing Emma, and wrap her in a towel. She smells like baby shampoo and laughs when I nuzzle her cheek, trying to distract myself.
As I get her diapered, Karissa’s voice carries over the clatter of pans. “Just put her in black leggings and that sweater hanging up, and white socks. I’ll come find her a bow when I’m done.”
“You got it,” I call back, forcing my voice to sound as normal as possible.
I brush Emma’s hair. She giggles when it touches the back of her neck every time; it’s adorable.
Out in the kitchen, Karissa’s got everything wiped down, just finishing drying the high chair tray off.
“Aw!” She smiles at Emma in my arms. “Daddy did a good job!”
“Just did what you said.” I shrug.
“You can leave her. You have to get ready,” she says, hanging the towel on the oven handle.
I set Emma on the rug, hand over her favorite baby doll and watch Karissa a second, trying to read her. She’s sorting through the diaper bag, talking to herself, making sure she has everything.
“Can we talk, hon?”
Her head snaps up, eyebrows drawing together like she’s not sure if she’s in trouble. She glances at the microwave clock.
