Grace was sleeping again, a bubble of milk at the corner of her mouth. I brought her to my shoulder. I knew what trauma felt like, I’d been there before, and I knew the value of space and silence. Healing doesn’t happen when you’re churning up raw flesh. Sometimes you need to let it all settle down so you can find the bedrock of your soul.

But what if it didn’t? What if the man who’d stood by me, my best friend, my husband, father of my daughter, what if the Michael I knew was gone forever?

Eventually, I grew uncomfortable in the chair. I put Grace down in the crib. In our room, Michael had rolled himself in a blanket from head to toe. On the bed stand next to him I saw a foil packet of over-the-counter sleeping pills, but I couldn’t believe he was sleeping, not really.

“Michael?” I whispered, but he didn’t answer.

I lay awake that night opposite Michael, my muscles tensed in painful knots. Without the baby monitor, I never really felt like I could stop listening for Grace. My mind wouldn’t stop whirling. I should pack in the morning; I should take Grace and go to my parents. I wouldn’t really be leaving, just giving him space. And keeping myself and our baby safe, something deep inside whispered.

But I didn’t want to leave Michael. I wanted him to roll over in the bed and gather me close. I wanted him to kiss me, to smile at me, to make me feel loved again. But instead there was only the barricade of blanket, another rejection like a thorn in my heart.

Somehow I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke, Michael’s side of the bed was empty, his pillow and the blanket gone. He couldn’t even stand to sleep next to me. All the pain of the previous night returned. And this was a Saturday. Forty-eight hours of avoiding each other, of pretending we hadn’t said the things we had, two full days before the Monday-to-Friday routine saved us from each other again.

We used to work on the house together on weekends, walking around furniture stores and plant nurseries, lining up projects and planning for the future. But I couldn’t see any future with the distant husband I’d faced last night.

I listened for Grace, but the house was silent. I dressed quickly and tiptoed down the hallway. Her door was open. In the gray morning light, I could see her sleeping on her back with an arm outflung. And, on the floor right next to the crib, lay Michael, wrapped in a blanket. The curve of his cheek was a larger echo of Grace’s, and his brow was smooth, the corners of his mouth slack.