My husband rolled his suitcase past my hospital bag on the morning of my due date and said, "You're on your own.

Ethan called eleven times over the following three days.

I answered on the fourth day, when Patricia told me to.

"We need to meet," he said.

His voice had settled back into something controlled.

Reasonable.

The voice he used when he wanted something.

"Just the two of us.

No lawyers."

"No."

"Madison—"

"Ethan, anything you want to say to me, you can say through Patricia Osei.

You have Gregory Holt's number.

They can talk."

"Gregory is—" He stopped.

"I'm not using Gregory anymore."

I waited.

"I hired someone else," he said.

"Someone who told me that what Gregory put in that document was — that it went further than I understood."

"Further than you understood," I repeated.

"I didn't know about the transfer timeline.

That was my mother's—"

"Ethan." My voice stayed flat.

"Don't."

A silence.

"I want to see my son."

"Your son has a name."

Another silence.

Longer.

"I want to see James."

It was the first time he had said it.

The name we had chosen together on a Sunday morning in February, lying in bed with a baby name book Claire had given us as a joke, and somehow arriving at James without argument, without negotiation, just both of us saying it at the same moment and then looking at each other.

I pushed that memory down.

"You can see James," I said.

"Patricia will arrange a supervised visit.

She'll be in touch with your new attorney."

"Supervised." The control in his voice cracked slightly.

"He's my son."

"And you were in Scottsdale when he was born."

The silence that followed was the longest yet.

"I want to explain that," he said.

"I want you to let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain.

You made a choice.

I made mine.

Now we both live with them."

"Madison." Something shifted in his tone.

The reasonableness dropped away and underneath it was something rawer.

"My mother told me you were fine.

She said you had weeks left.

She said the doctor had told you—"

"Your mother has never spoken to my doctor."

"She said—"

"Ethan." I kept my voice very steady.

"Your mother coordinated a financial transfer with your attorney eight weeks before you filed for a trip on my due date.

She sent me a threatening text from a prepaid phone she bought in Scottsdale.

Whatever she told you, she was managing you, not informing you."

The silence on his end had a different quality now.

"What text?" he said.

"*You should have stayed quiet.

This isn't over.*"

He said nothing.

"She bought the phone at a pharmacy there," I said.

"Patricia has the receipt."

I heard him exhale.

A long, slow breath that sounded less like anger and more like something collapsing.

"I didn't know about the text," he said.

"I believe you," I said.

"It doesn't change anything."

"Madison—"

"Goodbye, Ethan."

I ended the call.

Claire was in the kitchen doorway again.

She had a habit of appearing there during my phone calls, not to listen but to be present, which was more than I could say for anyone in the Walker family.

"He didn't know about the text," I said.

"Does that matter?"

I thought about it honestly.

"It matters for understanding what happened," I said.

"It doesn't matter for what happens next."

Claire nodded slowly.

"Patricia called while you were on with him," she said.

"She wants you in her office tomorrow morning.

She said bring everything."

I looked toward the bassinet.

James was awake, watching the ceiling with the focused, serious expression he had worn since his first hour of life, as if the world were a problem he was already working out.

"Okay," I said.

My phone buzzed one more time.

Not Ethan.

Not Patricia.

A name I hadn't expected.

Robert Walker.

Ethan's father.