Mum’s bright voice belied the worry lines around her eyes and mouth. Not much I could do about those. Just as there wasn’t much I could do to reduce my blood pressure or ensure the baby’s continued development. Eating more would help. As would rest and relaxation, the doctor had said.

I’d do everything possible to ensure this gel’s continued growth—to give her the best possible chance.

But rest? Relaxation? Not bloody likely now that I was in the middle of Simon’s stupid media shit storm.

“Sure.”

The nurse wheeled me out to the curb where Mum’s car chortled. I slid into the beige leather front seat, refusing to look up into the myriad flashes or answer a single yelled question.

“Bloody noisy bunch,” Mum grumbled, jerking the wheel so we sped away from the hospital.

“It’s news. Salacious news. And since Simon isn’t with me, it’s bigger news.”

“Do you want him to be? With you, I mean.”

I turned to look at her as she slowed for a stoplight. Mum turned her head toward me, the sunlight catching in her light-brown eyes, turning them molten.

“I don’t know. A month ago? Absolutely.”

“He’s hurting, too.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Mum made a strangled sound in her throat. She tightened her grip on the wheel and pressed us through the light.

My eyes filled with tears that I blinked back. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

I traced a snowflake down the edge of the car window’s glass.

“Remember when Miah was born?” Mum asked.

“Of course. One of the worst snow days in Seattle history.”

“I thought Simon was going to rip his heart out when your water broke. But he held it together and drove you to the hospital with such calm, even when you started shrieking about the pain from the contractions.”

“Mmm. Glad we got there when we did. Those contractions were bloody awful.”

In fact, they’d been worse than awful. But Simon stayed calm, holding my hand, offering me ice chips, and even rubbing my back when the pain intensified to the point I couldn’t breathe through the labor pains.

“You’ve got this, El,” he’d said over and over. He kissed my knuckles or brushed my hair back from my face, cupping my cheek. “I love you.”

The memory crashed over me.

I missed those moments. I missed the man I’d always thought my husband was.

I bit my lower lip. He didn’t come back to the hospital—no matter what he said about believing me that this child was his—he hadn’t come back after he asked me if I hated him.

Part of me did, and I’m sure he knew it.