Noah needs his formula warmed to ninety degrees, or he won’t take the bottle.”

Cole walked past the coat rack and lifted Noah out of his portable carrier.

He raised our six-month-old son to his shoulder with slow, deliberate ease.

“I managed to feed my children before you decided to run off with them, Lauren,” Cole said.

He leaned down close to my left cheek while Mrs.

Vance made a note on her clipboard.

“Try not to create a crisis tonight,” Cole whispered.