The nursery still smelled of fresh paint and baby powder when my husband walked in with a suitcase.

I was sitting on the floor, crib screws lined neatly beside me, one ankle swollen inside my slipper, trying to follow instructions that kept slipping out of focus.

At forty-five and eight months pregnant, I was still in disbelief that my body had carried me this far again. Even standing up took planning—and a little faith.

So when I saw Evan holding a suitcase, I assumed it was just another work trip.

“Why do you have a suitcase?” I asked.

He placed it quietly by the door. “I can’t do this anymore.”