He closed his eyes. For months I had watched him prepare for that child. He’d gone to the appointments. He’d built the crib himself because Sydney claimed delivery workers might damage the floors.

He’d turned a bedroom into a nursery and sent me a photograph of the pale-green walls.

“She let me hear the heartbeat,” he said. His voice stayed controlled.

“That doesn’t change the kind of father you were prepared to be.”

“It changes everything else.”

“Yes.” He looked at me. “The wedding?”