The phone rang while my newborn daughter slept on my chest, her tiny fist clutching the edge of my hospital gown.
On the screen was a name I had erased half a year ago but never truly left behind: Daniel.
I picked up without thinking.
“Emily,” he said, voice smooth and self-satisfied. “Hope this isn’t a bad time.”
I glanced at my daughter’s rosy face. “It is.”
He laughed softly. “Still dramatic. Anyway, I’m getting married tomorrow.”
For a second, the hospital room seemed to close in on me. The monitors kept beeping. Rain traced lines down the window. My stitches stung with every breath.
“Congratulations,” I said, flat and steady.
“To Vanessa,” he added, lingering on the name like a blade. “You remember her.”
