I folded my arms.
“You don’t get to walk into my house as though nothing happened.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“Ivy, please. Just let me explain.”
I stared at him.
“Explain what? I’ve been feeding and comforting the daughter you spent six years praying for because you handed her to me and walked away.”
He flinched.
Part of me was glad.
I wanted him to understand the weight of what he had done.
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face.
“The doctors mentioned surgery,” he said. “Therapy. Specialists. Maybe braces. Years of appointments.”
“And?”
“I panicked.”
“She’s your child.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
My anger spilled out before I could stop it.
“You held her for seconds, Ryan. Seconds. Then you acted as though someone had handed you something you didn’t order.”
His eyes closed.
“I know how it looked.”
“How it looked?”
I stepped closer.
“The doctor called. Hope has a chance at a healthy, active life. She may need surgery and therapy, but she is still your daughter. Yet the moment you heard there might be complications, you walked away.”
“That wasn’t why.”
I stopped.
“Then tell me why.”
Ryan sat on one of the stools beside my counter.
His shoulders folded inward.
Suddenly he didn’t look like the brother who had always protected me.
He looked frightened.
Ashamed.
Almost small.
Then he whispered, “I lost my job.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard him again.
“What?”
“Four months ago.”
I stared at him.
“Four months?”
He nodded.
“Right after the second-trimester scan.”
My anger gave way to confusion.
“Melissa knows?”
His silence answered me.
“Oh my God, Ryan.”
“Every morning, I get dressed for work like normal. I leave the house. Then I sit in a coffee shop and apply for jobs until it’s time to go home.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I’ve had two interviews,” he continued. “Neither went anywhere.”
“The nursery,” I said.
The crib.
The clothes.
The little felt stars.
Ryan looked away.
“Credit cards.”
My stomach dropped.
“She thinks we still have savings.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down.
Suddenly, some of those strange moments made sense.
The phone during appointments.
The distracted expression.
His refusal to enter the nursery.
The silence after the ultrasound.
“You were applying for jobs during the appointments.”
