He grinned widely and stepped closer. “Kirsten. It’s been a while.”

The baby in the stroller reached for a plush giraffe clipped to the handlebar, showing a tuft of blond hair and bright blue eyes. He looked about a year old, maybe a little younger.

Melinda adjusted his blue blanket with a careful little movement that felt strangely rehearsed, as if she desperately wanted everyone around us to notice how happy and picture-perfect her little family looked.

For a long moment, nobody spoke, and the tension grew heavy.

Then Connor broke the silence. “How have you been?”

The question sounded friendly enough on the surface, but his sharp tone certainly wasn’t.

“I’ve been fine, Connor,” I replied calmly.

“Still working too much, I assume?” he asked with a mocking tilt of his head.

I almost laughed out loud at that familiar accusation. For years, every single disagreement in our marriage somehow circled back to my demanding career.

He complained about too many hospital shifts, too many medical conferences, too many critical patients, too many late nights followed by early mornings.