my husband for anything.
His expression hardened.
“Move.”
“Cole—”
“Call the pediatrician again if you’re worried.”
“I need help.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s what mothers are supposed to do.”
The elevator arrived.
He entered while Lily cried in my arms and Noah screamed from the nursery.
Cole gave me one final look.
“And try not to create a crisis tonight.”
The doors closed.
Six hours later, I stood in our kitchen staring at him with another woman.
I’d expected rage, screaming, or an uncontrollable urge to call him.
Instead, I
