Martha looked at his hands on the steering wheel, both resting firmly at ten and two.

“Thank you for driving me today, Ethan,” she said softly.

“You have a lot of work waiting on your desk.”

“Work can wait until eight o’clock tonight,” Ethan said, turning the indicator on for Elm Avenue.

“Taking care of you is my job.”

Back at our suburban bungalow, the nursery was entirely quiet at three o’clock.

I sat in the yellow wooden rocking chair near the window, holding June flat against my chest while she slept.

Her forehead felt smooth and cool beneath my lips, her skin carrying the faint, clean scent of baby soap instead of wet washcloths and alcohol swabs.