I laughed, because his intensity could sometimes feel adorably overprepared. “You say that like you’ll materialize out of the air.”
His hand stayed on my stomach. “If I have to.”
I should have known then that Ethan never made promises casually.
The morning he left, dawn was still pale and colorless over the driveway. He loaded his bag into the car, then came back inside because he had forgotten nothing and simply wanted one more kiss. Then one more after that. He crouched in front of me with both hands braced on my knees, forehead against mine.
“Two days,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“Three if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing is going wrong.”
He leaned back enough to study my face. “That sounded like superstition.”
“Because you bring it out in me.”
He laughed under his breath and kissed me again, longer this time. When he finally rose, he pressed his palm over the curve of my belly. “Be good to your mother,” he told our son.
The baby kicked.
Ethan’s expression changed instantly—wonder, every time, as though this child had invented motion itself. “Traitor,” he said softly. “You take her side already.”
After he left, the house felt too large. I moved through the rooms in slow circles, touching folded blankets, adjusting nothing, drinking tea I forgot to finish. By afternoon I had half-convinced myself I was being ridiculous. By evening I had reorganized a cabinet that did not need organizing and texted Ethan three times about things that could have waited until he returned.
He responded to each message almost immediately.
Boarded.
Landed.
Miss you.
Eat something.
Send bump picture.
I did. He sent back a heart, then: Tell him I’m negotiating under protest because he’s due in a month and I dislike drama before deadlines.
That was Ethan—competence with a dry edge, tenderness hidden inside practical language.
The next day my mother called and asked whether I could stop by their house “for ten minutes” to bring some estate paperwork she and my father needed reviewed.
“There’s email,” I said.
“There is also family,” she replied, already annoyed. “Your father hates discussing legal matters over email.”
I nearly refused. I should have. But old habits are muscular things. My parents still knew exactly which strings to pull, and one of mine had always been obligation dressed as decency.
So on the second afternoon of Ethan’s trip, I drove to the house where I had grown up.