Chapter 8 - Morning Mist
The house felt dead.
I had avoided it for weeks.
After the divorce, I had left most of the furniture in place because selling it meant admitting the life inside those rooms was over.
Dust covered the kitchen counter.
The guest-room door was open.
The old nursery was closed.
I stood in front of it for nearly a minute.
Then I opened the door.
White walls.
Empty floor.
One window.
Nothing else.
Except I knew that wasn't true.
I walked to the closet.
Behind a stack of storage containers was a small paint can.
MORNING MIST.
I had bought an extra gallon during the second pregnancy.
After we lost the baby, Sophie had asked me to get rid of it.
I told her I had.
I hadn't.
I opened the can.
The paint had thickened.
I sat on the floor.
For half an hour, I stared at it.
Then I saw the box beside the wall.
SOPHIE.
Her handwriting.
Inside were things she hadn't taken.
A scarf.
Two novels.
A ceramic mug.
Her grandmother's recipe book.
And an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
ETHAN.
I froze.
The envelope wasn't sealed.
I opened it.
The first line stole the air from my lungs.
Ethan, if you're reading this, then I probably wasn't brave enough to say any of it to your face.
I sat against the wall.
The letter was dated nine days before I asked for the divorce.
Sophie had written three pages.
She wrote about our babies.
About the silence in the house.
About hearing my truck leave before sunrise.
About pretending to sleep when I came home because talking felt more painful than silence.
Then I reached the paragraph that made my hands shake.
I think I'm late again.
I haven't taken a test yet.
I'm too scared.
I know I should tell you.
But I don't know if another pregnancy would save us or finally break us.
I pressed the paper against my forehead.
Nine days.
She had suspected pregnancy nine days before I ended our marriage.
The final paragraph was worse.
I don't need you to be strong anymore.
I need you to be here.
If you're scared, tell me.
If you're angry, tell me.
If you hate that room as much as I do, tell me.
Just stop disappearing while you're standing five feet away.
I read the letter four times.
Then I found something underneath it.
A photograph.
Sophie sitting on the kitchen counter in my Army sweatshirt.
The day she told me about our first pregnancy.
On the back, she had written one sentence.
Before everything hurt, we were happy here.
I stayed on the nursery floor until darkness filled the room.
Then my phone rang.
Dr. Brooks.
I answered immediately.
Her voice was tense.
“Colonel Parker, Sophie is back in the emergency department.”
I was already on my feet.
“What happened?”
“Her fever spiked.”
I grabbed my keys.
May you like
Then Dr. Brooks said the words that made me run.
“We may be dealing with an infection.”
