“I’m fine with the truth,” I replied. “But give me my baby.”
He hesitated before handing Addison to the nurse instead of me, like I had somehow contaminated her.
My mother finally exploded. “Ethan, you should be ashamed—”
He cut her off immediately. “Don’t lecture me. I know what I know.”
The nurse gently placed Addison back in the bassinet and stepped between Ethan and the baby.
“Sir,” she said firmly, “if you keep raising your voice, I will call security.”
Ethan clenched his jaw but said nothing more. His eyes stayed locked on me.
“You can’t fool me,” he said quietly, with a certainty that frightened me more than his shouting. “The test will prove it.”
I looked down at my newborn daughter and felt something inside me shift—cold and clear.
If Ethan wanted a test, he would get one.
And when the results came back, one of us would learn a lesson neither of us would ever forget.
They transferred me to a quieter room after Ethan stormed out.
A hospital social worker stopped by later, speaking gently but asking direct questions. “Do you feel safe?” she asked. “Has he behaved like this before?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to protect the version of my life where Ethan was simply stressed, simply overwhelmed, simply not himself.
But the truth had been building for months.
Ethan had grown obsessed with “signs.” A coworker joking about babies not looking like their fathers. A podcast about cheating spouses. The way he began checking my phone location “for safety,” then getting angry when I questioned it.
