I hadn’t seen him relaxed since before that terrible night in this same nursery. And I wanted him back so badly, that other husband, the one I loved and trusted. I could see him right there in front of me, but I knew that waking him would break the spell. I stepped back into the hallway and pulled the nursery door softly shut.

In the kitchen I opened the fridge, looking past the cartons of yogurt, the leftovers from Rahmia’s casserole, and the bag of breast milk. We had eggs. I’d make scrambled eggs and toast. That could be breakfast for one or for two. But when I pulled the carton of eggs out, I caught sight of what was behind it, and I let them fall. Lena’s aunt’s sourdough starter, its label stained, Lena’s loopy writing faded.

Leaving the eggs on the floor, I took it out and dropped it into the trash. Then I washed my hands, scrubbing them as if some fermented component might have infected me.

“What’s happening?” Michael stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his hair mussed and the blanket trailing over one arm, the pillow dangling from the other.

“I just dropped some eggs.”

He nodded like a sleepwalker. “Grace’s awake. I’m going back to bed.”

Maybe Michael hadn’t gone to Grace’s room seeking comfort or wanting to protect her. Maybe he’d just taken too many sleeping pills.

As he walked to our bedroom, I picked up the carton, damp on one side from the eggs that had broken. I could hear Grace vocalizing, experimenting with the sounds she could make. What if he’d acted out another nightmare the way he had when he hit me?

There were two whole eggs left, but I wasn’t hungry anymore.

After I changed Grace’s diaper and got her dressed, I brought her into the living room to feed her. The nursery felt claustrophobic, overlaid with bad memories.

A call buzzed on my cell, and I groped to answer it before it woke Michael. Grace cried in protest, a bubble of milk forming at the corner of her mouth before she latched on again. I should have started her with the bottle today instead of going into this struggle again.

“Hello?” I hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the screen in my one-handed fumbling.

“Michael’s not answering his phone.” The woman’s voice was accusatory.

“Who is this?”

“Alondra. And nobody’s picking up your home phone either.”

“It rings through to our cells. I must not have heard it. What’s wrong?” Grace gave up nursing in disgust, and for a second I risked dropping the phone or hanging up with the side of my face as I tried to maneuver her onto my shoulder.

“The police want to go over some things with Michael. He needs to be at the station in an hour.”