“Someone didn’t order the right part.”
He came home smelling faintly of disinfectant and coffee rather than machine oil, but I assumed the factory had changed cleaning products.
Sometimes he was quiet after those shifts.
Not guilty.
More like emotionally exhausted.
Once, I found him sitting on the edge of our bed after midnight with both hands covering his face.
“Bad night?” I asked.
He looked up quickly.
“Long one.”
I sat beside him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead.
“Not yet.”
The answer bothered me, but I respected it.
Everyone was entitled to thoughts they had not arranged into words.
I did not know he was spending those nights holding babies who had no one else to hold them.
Thursday began with rain against the kitchen windows.
Caleb was upstairs showering.
I packed his lunch while coffee brewed.
His smartwatch sat on the counter beside the bread box.
That was unusual.
He wore it everywhere.
He once returned home halfway to work because he had forgotten it.
I picked it up, intending to carry it upstairs.
The screen lit before I touched it.
Lena: She stopped crying the moment you held her. Last night was perfect.
My hand went numb.
I stared until the message disappeared.
Then the second notification arrived.
Can you come back tonight? She needs you.
She.
A baby?
A child?
Another woman?
My mind created possibilities faster than I could reject them.
Caleb had come home after eleven the previous night.
He had taken a shower before getting into bed.
When I asked why he smelled like baby powder, he told me someone at work had spilled industrial soap on his shirt.
I had laughed.
Now I remembered how quickly he changed the subject.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
I returned the watch to the counter and turned toward the coffee machine.
Caleb entered buttoning his shirt.
