The rain hit the glass of our Seattle townhouse in a steady, drumming rhythm. I walked around the dining table and lit the last candle. The room smelled like roasted garlic and expensive steak. I set out two plates, two forks, and a bottle of sparkling cider instead of wine.
My hand slipped into my cardigan pocket. My fingers traced the smooth plastic of the pregnancy test. Two pink lines. After two years of marriage, we were finally going to be parents. I felt bubbles of excitement in my chest.
Cristian was flying back from a business trip in Chicago tonight. I wanted to see his face light up when I told him. I had everything planned perfectly. I checked the clock on the wall. It was almost eight.
The front door lock clicked.
I smoothed my dress and hurried to the foyer. “Cristian?”
The heavy oak door swung open. A gust of cold, damp wind rushed in. It blew out the nearest candle on the table. Cristian stood in the doorway. His suit was rumpled, and his tie was loose. He looked exhausted. But I didn't look at his face for long.
A small figure hid behind his leg.
It was a little girl. She looked about eight years old. She wore a bright yellow raincoat dripping with water. In one hand, she clutched a stuffed rabbit tightly by its neck.
I stopped walking. I blinked, trying to make sense of the scene. “Cristian? Who is this?”
Before he could answer, the girl stepped forward. She wrapped her arms tightly around his thigh and buried her face in his trousers.
“Daddy,” she whimpered.
The word hit me like a physical blow. The air left my lungs. My hand tightened around the plastic test in my pocket. The edges dug into my palm.
“Daddy?” I echoed. My voice sounded hollow.
Cristian stepped inside and pushed the door shut. He didn't meet my eyes. Instead, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. It was his tell. He always did that when he was hiding something.
“Laila, let me explain,” he said quickly. He gently pried the girl off his leg. “This is Madalyn. Go sit on the sofa, sweetie.”
Madalyn scurried into the living room. She didn't look at me. She just climbed onto the cushions in her wet raincoat.
Cristian reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and shoved it into my hands. “Her mother was Raelyn Herrera. An old college friend of mine. She died in a car accident abroad.”
I unfolded the paper. My hands were shaking. It was a legal document. A paternity test. The black letters blurred together in the dim light.
“It says you’re the father,” I whispered. The heat drained from my face. My heart pounded in my ears.
“It’s a mistake,” he urged. His voice took on a desperate edge. “Raelyn listed me as the father on some fake document years ago. I just found out. The state tracked me down this week. I had to go get her.”
I looked from the document to his face. “If she’s not yours, why is she calling you Daddy?”
“She’s confused,” he insisted. He stepped closer and grabbed my shoulders. His grip was tight. “She’s traumatized, Laila. The social workers told her she was going to live with her father. I couldn't just leave her to the foster system. She has no one else in the world.”
“Cristian, you can't just bring a child home—”
“What was I supposed to do?” he interrupted. His tone shifted from pleading to defensive. “Throw her out on the street? You’ve always been so kind, Laila. You volunteer. You care about people. How can you ask me to be so heartless to an orphan?”
The guilt-trip worked instantly. The anger in my chest wavered. It was replaced by a heavy, suffocating pressure. I looked past his shoulder into the living room. The little girl sat on my couch. She looked so small and fragile. I was a compassionate person. I couldn't throw a grieving child out into the storm.
“Okay,” I said quietly. I stepped back, out of his grip. “She can stay. For now.”
Cristian let out a massive sigh of relief. “Thank you. I knew you’d understand.”
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He turned away from me immediately. He didn't ask how my day was. He didn't notice the candlelight, or the steaks resting on the table, or the cider. He was already walking toward the living room to check on the girl.
I felt a sudden, desperate need to pull him back. To remind him of us. To fix the sudden crack in my perfect evening.
“Cristian, wait,” I called out.
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
I pulled the pregnancy test from my pocket. My hand trembled slightly as I held it out. “I have news too. I went to the doctor today.” I took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
He froze. He looked at the plastic stick in my hand, then up at my face. I waited for his eyes to widen. I waited for the joy, the tears, the rush forward to hold me. There was nothing. Just a blank, stunned silence.
Before he could even open his mouth, a loud, high-pitched wail erupted from the living room.
“Daddy! I’m scared!” Madalyn cried out.
Cristian flinched. He didn't step toward me. He didn't touch the pregnancy test.
“I have to go to her,” he muttered.
He turned his back on me and hurried to the couch. He scooped the girl into his arms. I heard him murmuring soft, soothing words to her.
I stood alone in the foyer. The pregnancy test felt heavy and useless in my hand. The rain battered the windows. In the dining room, the remaining candles flickered in the draft, casting long, dark shadows across the walls.
