She paused, just for a breath. The soft yellow light from upstairs fell across her face, revealing the dark circles from sleepless nights and the faint curve of her belly beneath her pale blue uniform.

Inside the room, Oliver’s crying split the silence. It wasn’t fussing—it was panic, raw and desperate. Emily’s heart reacted instantly. Her hand brushed over her stomach in a reflex she didn’t think about anymore.

“Mr. Carter…” she whispered.

No answer. Only the baby’s cries.

She opened the door slowly. The room was modern and spacious, lit by the cool glow of a night lamp—but the sight stopped her cold.

Oliver lay in the crib, diaper undone, sheets stained, legs dirty. A bottle had tipped over, milk creeping across the rug. And beside the crib sat Daniel Carter, slumped in an armchair, his tailored suit wrinkled, tie loose, hair a mess. His hands pressed into his face as his shoulders shook.

“Oh God…” Emily breathed.

Daniel looked up sharply. His eyes were red—not from lack of sleep, but from something broken deeper inside.

“I told you not to come in,” he snapped hoarsely. “Get out.”

Her stomach twisted. But Oliver cried louder, and instinct overruled fear.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, stepping inside, “but he needs help.”

“I said get out!” Daniel shouted.

Emily ignored him. Pain flared in her lower back as she lifted Oliver carefully. The baby clung to her uniform, trembling.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, rocking him. “I’ve got you.”

The crying softened, turning wet and weak. Emily glanced at Daniel. He hadn’t moved, like someone who’d forgotten how.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

He didn’t answer.

She took Oliver to the bathroom, warmed the water, cleaned him with slow, practiced movements. Her hands were steady—the same hands her own child would know soon, if life allowed.

“There we go,” she murmured. “All better.”

Her belly kicked softly. She closed her eyes for a moment.

Ten minutes later, Oliver was clean and calm, dressed in a blue sleeper. She carried him back.

“Mr. Carter,” she said quietly. “You should rest.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“Can’t what?”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Be a father.”

The words landed hard. Emily felt them echo inside her.

“You’re trying,” she said.

He laughed weakly. “Look at this mess.”

“You’re not cruel,” she replied. “You’re lost.”

She set Oliver down, now peaceful, and sat nearby.

“Can I help?” she asked. “If you let me.”