His suitcase was filled with gifts: a soft rabbit for the baby, a silver necklace for Claire, chocolates for his mother, a toy racing car for his nephew, and a small wooden music box he had bought at a Christmas market.
He imagined walking into their house in Oak Park, Illinois, just before midnight.
He imagined his mother, Diane, warming soup in the kitchen. His sister, Brooke, would probably be decorating cupcakes while her husband, Jason, watched football. Their eight-year-old son, Ben, would be begging to stay awake until midnight.
Most importantly, Ethan imagined Claire resting comfortably while someone else held the baby.
He had arranged everything before leaving Germany.
He transferred $9,000 to his mother to cover groceries, medication, transportation, formula, and anything else Claire might need. He also gave Diane temporary access to an emergency credit card.
A postpartum nurse was supposed to visit every morning for two weeks.
A grocery delivery had been scheduled twice a week.
The freezer had been stocked with homemade meals.
“Don’t worry about Claire,” Diane had told him over the phone. “I’ll treat her like my own daughter.”
Brooke had made the same promise.
“You focus on finishing your assignment,” she said. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Ethan had trusted them completely.
That trust disappeared the moment he stepped into the kitchen.
Claire sat beneath the weak yellow light wearing an old pink cardigan over a nursing tank top. Her dark hair was tangled, her lips were dry, and her eyes looked sunken from exhaustion.
The package of noodles was open on the table, its contents scattered across the scratched wood.
A glass of water stood beside her.
There was no broth.
No fruit.
No medicine.
No proper meal.
“Claire?”
Her head snapped up.
For one beautiful second, relief transformed her face.
“Ethan?”
Then she began to cry.
