My husband stepped over my hospital bag on the morning our baby was dueee,

While I was nursing Leo in the postpartum recovery suite, eleven hundred miles away in Arizona, Ethan Vance was sitting on a teak lounger beside the heated saltwater pool at the Phoenician, a frozen margarita sweating in his hand.

I knew this because Clare had spent thirty minutes archiving his sister’s Instagram stories.

Chloe Vance had posted six updates within three hours:

A Boomerang of Victoria clinking champagne flutes with two society matrons: “Celebrating Mom’s birthday weekend! No stress, just sunshine!”

A video of Ethan swinging a driver on the fairway: “Brother finally getting a break from domestic drama.”

A photo of Ethan laughing at an outdoor steakhouse with his father: “Boys will be boys. Happy family weekend!”

At 7:45 PM on Thursday, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from Ethan:

Hey. Hope you’re resting. Mom said you were probably just having Braxton Hicks this morning. Flight gets in Saturday at 4 PM. Make sure the dry cleaner has my charcoal suit picked up for the partners' dinner on Monday.

I stared at the screen.

No question about my health. No inquiry about the contractions. No mention of his unborn child.

Just his laundry.

I didn't reply. I plugged the phone into the charger, turned it onto silent, and laid Leo back against my chest, watching him sleep beneath the soft cotton hospital blanket.

Twenty minutes later, another message arrived:

Maddie? Did you hear me? Also, Chloe wants to know if you can make that lemon pasta on Sunday night when we get back. Mom’s stomach is sensitive after traveling.

Clare leaned over my shoulder, read the message, and let out a sound of pure, unvarnished disgust. "I am going to fly to Phoenix, find that golf course, and wrap that titanium driver around his neck."

"Don't waste the gas," I said calmly. "Let him keep texting. Every single word is being logged into Rebecca’s discovery file."

At 11:00 PM, Ethan’s name flashed across the screen with an incoming call.

I let it ring until it went to voicemail.

His message was clipped, irritated, and patronizing:

"Maddie, pick up the damn phone. Why are you ignoring me? If you’re throwing a tantrum because I went on my mother's birthday trip, you’re being incredibly childish. Grow up. We’ll talk when I get home on Saturday. And don't forget to take the trash out to the curb tomorrow morning."