The morning I brought my daughter into the world, I thought the hardest part would be the pain.
I thought it would be the stitches, the sleepless nights, the fear of doing something wrong as a first-time mother.
I had no idea the real heartbreak would come from my husband.
Our daughter was born on a Friday morning.
Tiny, perfect, and impossibly beautiful.
By evening, I was exhausted, sore, and barely able to walk, but I was happy. Every ache felt worth it when I looked at her sleeping face.
Then it was time to go home.
I shuffled through the hospital doors wearing oversized sweatpants and layers that pressed against every tender place on my body.
My daughter slept inside her infant carrier while the diaper bag dug painfully into my shoulder.
Beside me walked my husband, Logan.
Empty-handed.
He was not carrying the diaper bag. He was not carrying paperwork. He was not carrying the blanket the hospital had sent home with us.
He was carrying absolutely nothing.
Chapter 2: The Leather Seats
When we reached the pickup lane, Logan suddenly stopped.
At first, I assumed he had forgotten where he parked.
Then he stared through the rear window of his luxury car and frowned.
“I’m not putting the baby in my car,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
For a second, I genuinely thought he was joking.
He pointed toward the back seat.
“The leather.”
I waited for the punchline.
It never came.
“Logan,” I said slowly, “open the door.”
He unlocked it, but continued staring at the seats as if they were priceless museum artifacts.
“My leather is brand new,” he said. “If she spits up in there, the smell will never come out.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
