He had known I would not look.

He had known that a woman going through a divorce and a secret pregnancy and the ruins of five years of hope would not, in that fog, audit her own accounts.

And he had been right about all of it but the last part.

Because I had looked — later than he expected, but not too late.

And now his own sentence was lying on a hospital blanket next to my sleeping daughter, and it was no longer my word against his.

It was his word against himself.