Chapter 2 - THE THING RYAN DIDN’T WANT OPENED
Emma stopped.
Not because Ryan had ordered her to.
Because of his face.
He knew something.
That realization hurt more than Margaret’s slap.
“What?”
Ryan looked from the envelope to his mother.
“Mom, what’s in there?”
Margaret’s relief was almost invisible.
Almost.
Emma saw it.
“You tell me,” she said to Ryan.
“I don’t know.”
“You just told me not to open it.”
“Because Noah’s screaming, you’re shaking, and this is getting out of control.”
Emma stared at him.
There were good answers.
Ryan had always been good at them.
Calm answers.
Reasonable answers.
Answers that made Emma feel unreasonable for having asked the question.
She looked down at Noah.
His crying had softened against her chest.
“I’m taking him downstairs.”
Margaret stepped forward.
“You’re not taking him anywhere until—”
Ryan turned.
“Mom.”
One word.
Margaret stopped.
Emma carried Noah to the primary bedroom at the opposite end of the second floor and locked the door.
Then she called the pediatric after-hours line.
She explained exactly what had happened.
Unknown bottle.
Unknown contents.
Unknown amount consumed.
Noah was alert.
Breathing normally.
Color normal.
No vomiting.
The nurse told her what symptoms would require emergency care and advised them to bring Noah and the bottle to the pediatrician first thing in the morning if he remained well overnight.
Emma followed every instruction.
At 1:13 a.m., Ryan knocked.
“Can I come in?”
Emma opened the door but did not move aside immediately.
He looked exhausted.
His eyes went to her cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Mom hitting you.”
“Easy one.”
“Emma.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“Then why did you stop me?”
“I was trying to calm everything down.”
“No. You reacted.”
Ryan came inside.
Noah was asleep in the bedside bassinet.
Emma placed the mystery bottle on the dresser inside a sealed food-storage bag.
Ryan noticed.
“You called the doctor?”
“Of course I called the doctor.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
Ryan rubbed his forehead.
The mansion felt enormous at night.
Too many hallways.
Too many closed doors.
Too much money spent making silence feel elegant.
Emma held up the envelope.
“I’m opening it.”
Ryan did not stop her this time.
Inside were six folded sheets.
The first was a feeding chart.
Dates.
Times.
Ounces.
Sleep intervals.
Notes.
Emma sat down.
“What is this?”
Ryan came closer.
Her eyes moved down the page.
June 11.
June 12.
June 13.
Nearly five weeks of entries.
Some were accurate.
Some were not.
Under several days, someone had written:
E REFUSED SUPPLEMENT.
E MISSED 2:00 FEED.
E TOO TIRED TO WAKE.
E BECAME DEFENSIVE WHEN ADVISED.
Emma looked up.
“Who wrote this?”
Ryan’s face tightened.
“I don’t know.”
The handwriting was Margaret’s.
Emma knew it from birthday cards and Christmas gift tags.
She turned the page.
Another sheet contained Noah’s weights.
Hospital discharge.
One week.
Two weeks.
One month.
The numbers were real.
At the bottom was a handwritten note:
RYAN CONCERNED. KEEP OBJECTIVE RECORD.
Emma stopped breathing for a second.
She looked at her husband.
“Ryan concerned.”
He sat on the edge of the chair.
“Emma—”
“Did you ask her to track me?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her to track Noah?”
Ryan didn’t answer.
That was the answer.
Emma felt something far more painful than anger.
“You did.”
“It wasn’t like this.”
She laughed softly.
“Apparently nothing ever is.”
“His weight dropped.”
“Babies lose weight after birth.”
“I know.”
“Our pediatrician said he was fine.”
“He said to monitor him.”
“So you asked your mother to monitor me?”
“No.”
Ryan stood.
“I told her I was worried because you wouldn’t sleep and you were insisting on doing every feeding yourself.”
“I was breastfeeding our newborn.”
“You were falling asleep sitting up.”
“I was six days postpartum.”
“I was scared.”
Emma looked at the feeding chart again.
“Did you know she was giving him bottles?”
“No.”
“Did you know she was keeping this?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her not to tell me you were worried?”
Ryan looked away.
Emma’s chest tightened.
“You did.”
“I said I didn’t want to stress you out.”
“Ryan.”
“I thought it would be for a few days.”
Emma stared at the gold envelope.
Margaret had not started with secret bottles.
May you like
Ryan had opened the door.
And instead of trusting Emma enough to tell her he was afraid, he had gone to the one person in the house who already believed Emma was doing motherhood wrong.
