Chapter 1

Five months pregnant, and my husband set up a group chat just for me. He called it "Countdown to Baby."

His mother was in it, the postpartum nurse, the nanny, the driver, and Dylan Delgado's assistant.

The only one not in it was Dylan himself.

I asked him why he didn't join.

He kept his head down, working on his tie, his voice flat.

"You can all handle those little things. It just annoys me to read it."

Every day the group talked about formula, diapers, who'd stay in the delivery room.

Every time I posted something, all he had his assistant send back was "Noted."

I thought he was just the kind of man who couldn't stand fussy little details.

Until the day his phone was left on the dining table.

The screen lit up, and a new group message popped up.

The group was called: "Hazel's Welcome-Home Surprise Team."

Dylan had sent over a hundred messages in it.

Asking whether her bad stomach could handle cold drinks, whether the airport bouquet should skip the lilies, whether the hotel pillows would be too soft.

The last one.

"She hates noise. Don't send too many people to the airport. I'll carry her out myself."

I stared at that line for a long time.

So it wasn't that the little details bothered him.

He just didn't think me and the baby were worth his time.

At ten that night, the pregnancy chat was still asking me where I'd put the hospital bag.

I didn't type a single word. I just left the group.

From that moment, the baby and I walked out of his life.

......

Less than three minutes after I left, his assistant Eugene Dickerson called.

"Ma'am, the group... did you leave it by accident?"

"Mr. Delgado asks if you'd like to be added back."

"It wasn't an accident."

"Then what should I tell Mr. Delgado?"

"Whatever you want."

The call ended. Dylan's phone, still on the dining table, was still lit.

In "Hazel's Welcome-Home Surprise Team," someone asked if she'd want a blanket in case she got cold. He replied:

"Get one. Not too thick, she thinks heavy ones are a bother."

And when I said my stomach hurt in the pregnancy chat, all Eugene sent back for him was:

"Noted."

At eleven, Dylan came home carrying honey almond cake.

I said:

"I left the group."

His hands stopped on his tie.

"Eugene told me."

"You're not going to ask me why?"

He poured a cup of warm water, pressed the pad of his finger to the side of the cup.

"A hundred and eight. Just right."

I was about to make an excuse for him when my phone rang.

A voice message from Hazel:

"Dylan, my stomach hurts. Maybe the plane food was too cold."

Dylan picked up his car keys.

"You're going out?"

"She just got back. She's got no one around her."

"I've got no one around me either."

He frowned.

"Peggy Winfield, why are you comparing yourself to her?"

"She's different."

I said:

"I'm only five months along. I'm not made of steel."

He laughed.

"It's not like I'm ignoring you."

"There's a whole house of people here. Do I really have to watch over you myself?"

At the door, he turned back.

"Finish the water."

"Don't skip eating again just because I went out for a while."

"You think I'm faking?"

"You're harder to please than you used to be."

After the door closed, the water went cold fast.

Ten minutes later, Eugene pulled me into a new group.

The name: "Pregnancy Logistics."

His mother, the postpartum nurse, the nanny, the driver, the nutritionist, the family doctor's assistant, all there. Still no Dylan.

I'd been muted.

The pinned notice read:

"Pregnant woman prone to mood swings. All contact goes through Eugene."

In the spreadsheet, my weight, blood pressure, sleep, morning sickness, and fetal movement were all laid out, clear as day.

I tried to type. A prompt popped up on the screen.

"You have been muted by an administrator."

The baby stirred softly inside me.

I laid my hand there and said quietly:

"Don't wait for him anymore."

My pregnancy was an item on his to-do list.

Her stomachache was pinned to the top.