Page 95 of The Moment I Knew

“In the spare room,” he said automatically.

“The office,” I corrected.

His mouth opened, then closed again. “It’s both.”

“No,” I said. “It’s your office that I borrow.”

Hilary shifted beside him. “It’s not that bad⁠—”

“It’s a broken air mattress,” I snapped, turning on her again. “On the floor. Next to a desk you never bother to move back. With a lamp that doesn’t work half the time.”

Dad looked genuinely startled. “I was going to replace it.”

“You’ve been ‘going to’ for weeks,” I said. “You know what it feels like, lying there at night? Like I’m temporary. Like I could be folded up and put away the moment you need the space.”

“That’s not fair,” he said weakly.

“Isn’t it?” I asked. “Because I line my things up in a corner so I don’t get in the way. I keep my bag zipped so it doesn’t look messy. I wake up early so I’m not here when you need to work. I make myself small.”

Hilary crossed her arms. “No one asked you to do that.”

“Because you didn’t have to,” I said, my voice broken. The tears were finally streaming down my face and I didn’t even waste my time wiping them away.

Dad stared at the floor.

I felt something hot and aching rise in my chest. “So what’s going to happen now?” I asked. “Are you going to turn it into a nursery?”

Hilary stiffened.

Dad blinked. “What?”

“The office,” I said. “You’ll need a room for the baby. Are you planning to move the desk out, or—what? Will the crib just go where my air mattress is?”

“That’s not—” Dad started, then faltered. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

Hilary spoke before he could recover. “We assumed the baby would need the second bedroom, yes.”

My throat tightened. “So where do I go?”

“You don’t live here,” Hilary said, too quickly. Too smoothly.

The words landed like a slap.

Dad whipped around to look at her. “Hil⁠—”

“It’s just practical,” she continued, undeterred. “You’re with your mom most of the time. This isn’t really your home.”

I felt strangely calm. Numb. Like something essential had finally clicked into place.

“Say it again,” I said quietly.

Hilary’s lips pressed together. “You have a home. This just isn’t it.”

Dad looked panicked now. “That’s not what she meant.”

“It is exactly what she meant,” I said. “And honestly? Thank you for saying it out loud.”

“That’s not fair to her,” Dad said, gesturing at Hilary. “She’s trying.”