Chương 1 - Nỗi Lo Âu Của Người Mẹ

My husband walked past me I was still numb the C-section, picked up one of our twins, and whispered, “There’s my boy.”

The other baby was my chest.

Ethan never looked at him.

I remember that moment clearly than almost anything else the delivery.

Not the operating room lights. Not the anesthesiologist if I felt nauseous. Not the pressure in my abdomen the doctors worked.

I remember Ethan’s face when he saw Owen.

His eyes filled with tears. His hands actually shook when the nurse helped him hold the baby.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered. “Dad’s here.”

Noah started me.

I was still flat on my , one arm weak the IV, trying to keep him tucked my hospital gown.

“Can you take him for a second?” I asked.

Ethan glanced .

“Give me a minute. Owen’s breathing looks weird.”

A nurse was already standing Owen.

She explained, calmly, that his oxygen was a little low and they wanted to take him to the special-care nursery for observation.

It turned out to be temporary breathing trouble. The doctors weren’t panicked.

Ethan was.

He followed the bassinet toward the door without if I was okay.

My mother, Diane, stood my bed looking him.

Then she looked at me.

“Did he just leave?”

I was exhausted enough to laugh.

“He’s scared.”

Noah was still .

Mom adjusted the blanket around him and said nothing.

At thirty-two, I had married to Ethan for seven years.

Until that week, I would described our marriage as normal.

Not perfect.

Normal.

worked. owned a -bedroom house outside Atlanta. Ethan was a regional operations director for a logistics company, and I worked in project operations for a healthcare software firm.

fought dishes, money, his travel schedule, whose family got Thanksgiving.

Normal married-people things.

The pregnancy had hard.

Twins.

Bed rest for the last five weeks.

A scheduled C-section that became an earlier C-section when my blood pressure spiked.

I knew Ethan had stressed.

So when he became completely obsessed with Owen the delivery, I told myself that was why.

Owen had needed the special-care nursery.

Noah hadn’t.

Fear made people weird.

That explanation lasted days.

I went with Noah first.

Owen stayed at the hospital for two nights.

I cried when left him.

Ethan didn’t.

He squeezed my hand in the elevator and said, “I’ll handle everything with Owen. You focus on Noah and recovering.”

At the time, I thought it was sweet.

He drove and forth between our house and the hospital my mother helped me shower, stand up, and get in and out of bed.

I could barely cross the bedroom without holding my incision.

On the fifth day the twins born, Ethan came through our front door carrying a car seat.

“Owen’s .”

I started before he set the carrier down.

I had only seen Owen for short stretches in the nursery. I’d recovering, pumping, dealing with blood-pressure checks, and trying to care for Noah at the same time.

The baby in the carrier had a blue knit hat pulled low his forehead.

I touched his cheek.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Ethan hovered me.

“Careful. He’s had a long day.”

I looked up at him.

“I’m his mother.”

“I know.”

But he still watched my hands.

That should bothered me than it did.

I blamed sleep deprivation.

For the next month, our house operated like there two categories of baby.

Owen.

And Noah.

Ethan ordered a premium monitor for Owen.

Noah had the basic one our registry.

Ethan bought Owen new sleep sacks the ones had apparently “too rough.”

Noah wore whatever was clean.

If Owen made one little sound at , Ethan was out of bed before I could move.

If Noah cried, Ethan pulled the blanket his head.

One , two weeks came , Noah woke around in the morning.

I was trying to stand up with him when a sharp pain shot through my incision.

I grabbed the dresser and sucked in a breath.

Noah started harder.

Ethan appeared in the doorway holding Owen.

“Can you keep him quiet?”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Owen finally fell .”

I looked down at Noah.

Then at my husband.

“I’m having trouble standing.”

Ethan shifted Owen his shoulder.

“So sit down and feed him.”

I don’t know what expression crossed my face, Ethan immediately sighed.

“Claire, I’m not trying to be a jerk. Owen had a rough start. He needs extra attention.”

“They need attention.”

“Noah’s fine.”

“He’s two weeks old.”

“And healthy.”

“So that means you don’t to parent him?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

“You want to this argument at in the morning?”

I almost laughed.

“I don’t want to any argument. I want help.”

Owen stirred his chest.

Ethan lowered his voice.

“You’re going to wake him up.”

Then he walked away.

The next morning my mother came .

She took one look at me and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She opened the refrigerator.

There bottles, formula, takeout containers, and kinds of expensive probiotic drops Ethan had ordered for Owen.

“What you eaten?”

“I had toast.”

“Today?”

“Last .”

Mom slowly closed the refrigerator.

“Where’s Ethan?”

“Upstairs with Owen.”

“And Noah?”

I pointed to the bassinet me.

Mom looked toward the ceiling.

Then at me.

“Is this how it’s ?”

I already knew what she meant.

I didn’t answer.

She made me eggs, soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich though it was nine-thirty in the morning.

I ate all .

I ate, Ethan came downstairs carrying Owen.

He kissed the top of his head.

“Morning, Mom.”

My mother wasn’t his mother, but he had called that since our wedding.

She stared at him.

“Where’s your other son?”

Ethan glanced at Noah’s bassinet.

“Sleeping.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His expression changed.

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m why Claire looks like she hasn’t slept in a week you seem extremely well-rested for a man with newborn twins.”

“Mom.”

I gave a warning look.

I wasn’t ready for a fight.

Ethan shrugged.

“Owen had medical issues. I’ve taking most of his nights.”

“And Noah?”

“Claire has Noah.”

My mother looked at me.

Then at him.

“They’re yours.”

Ethan’s face hardened for half a second.

Then he smiled.

“Of course they are.”

That sentence came to me later.

At the time, I barely noticed it.

By week , I had stopped Ethan to help with Noah.

It hurt less than hearing him say no.

That was my contribution to the problem.

I adapted.

I always adapted.

If Ethan had a brutal work week, I took at .

If he traveled, I rearranged my schedule.

If his mother wanted Christmas Day, I convinced my mother that Christmas Eve was just as good.

I had spent seven years smoothing rough edges until I forgot marriage wasn’t supposed to be one person constantly making things easier for the other.

Still, I knew something the way Ethan acted around Owen was wrong.

He didn’t just care .

He guarded him.

If I picked Owen up unexpectedly, Ethan appeared within minutes.

If my mother offered to feed him, Ethan said he was on a specific schedule.

When my friend Rachel came by and asked to hold babies, Ethan handed Noah.

Never Owen.

At first I thought he was anxious of the special-care nursery.

Then one , around two in the morning, I walked into the living room to get a clean bottle.

Ethan was sitting on the couch with Owen on his chest.

His phone lit up him.

The screen showed one name.

Jenna ❤️

I stopped.

Ethan grabbed the phone and flipped it .

Too fast.

“Who’s Jenna?”

He looked up.

“A vendor.”

“With a heart?”

He glanced at the phone.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“She put that in contact card when she sent me information. I never changed it.”

I stared at him.

“A vendor put a heart in own name?”

“Claire, it’s two in the morning.”

“Which is also an interesting time for a vendor to text you.”

His expression went flat.

“Do you want to do this right now?”

Noah started upstairs.

Ethan looked toward the ceiling.

Then at me.

“There’s your cue.”

My stomach turned.

I went upstairs.

I didn’t sleep again that .

The next morning, I tried to convince myself I was being paranoid.

Postpartum hormones.

Sleep deprivation.

A marriage under pressure.

Anything but what my mind kept circling.

Jenna.

The heart.

The secrecy.

Owen.

I looked at Noah I fed him.

He had my mother’s chin.

Everyone said that.

I looked across the room at Owen in the other bassinet.

And for the first time, I had a thought so strange I almost felt guilty for having it.

What if the problem wasn’t that Ethan preferred one twin?

What if there was something Owen I didn’t know?

I dismissed it.

Then I spent the entire day thinking it.

That , Ethan fell , I ordered two at- maternity DNA tests.

Not paternity.

Maternity.

I wanted to prove to myself that I was spiraling.

I wanted two boring results telling me babies mine.

Then I could apologize to myself for being insane and maybe start harder questions Jenna.

The kits arrived days later.

I waited until Ethan went to work.

Swabbing Noah was easy.

He made a face and tried to suck on the swab.

Owen was harder.

Not of him.

my hands shaking.

He looked up at me with dark, unfocused newborn eyes I rubbed the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I didn’t know what I was apologizing for.

I mailed tests a post office twenty minutes our house.

Then I waited.

Five days.

During those five days, Ethan became affectionate.

Not with me.

With Owen.

He came with a tiny Atlanta Braves onesie.

He took photos of Owen lying on a blanket.

He posted one of them to his private Instagram with the caption:

My tough little guy.

No photo of Noah.

I stared at the post for ten minutes.

Then I put my phone down.

The results came on a Thursday afternoon.

Noah was .

Owen was in the swing the couch.

Ethan was at work.

I opened Noah’s result first.

The language was clinical.

Probability of maternity greater than 99.99%.

I actually laughed.

A shaky little laugh.

Of course.

Of course this was ridiculous.

Then I opened Owen’s.

I read the conclusion once.

Then twice.

Then I zoomed in the words seemed blurry.

The tested woman is excluded as the biological mother of the tested child.

For a few seconds, my brain refused to understand the sentence.

I looked at Owen.

at the screen.

Then at Owen again.

I thought the lab had mixed something up.

That had to be it.