The silence in our small apartment was heavier than the stack of final-notice bills on the coffee table. It wasn’t an empty silence; it was thick with unspoken anxieties, with the metallic taste of fear that had been our constant companion for months. Each red-inked envelope felt like a paper-thin tombstone marking the death of another dream. The dream of a comfortable home for our coming baby. The dream of starting our life together on solid ground. The dream of Owen’s start-up business not swallowing us whole.

I sat on the sagging sofa, one hand resting protectively over the gentle swell of my belly, a small, firm hill that held the entire world. Six months. My baby, our son, was the size of a papaya, and all I could think about was how we were going to afford diapers when we couldn’t even afford the electricity bill sitting on top of the pile.

Owen paced. The floorboards of our rented second-floor walk-up groaned under his restless weight. He was a good man, my Owen. His heart was a vast, open territory of kindness and ambition. But his ambition was currently sinking us, dragging us down into a quagmire of debt. He’d poured every cent we had, every line of credit we could secure, into his app development company. It was a brilliant idea, a revolutionary concept for logistical management, but brilliance didn’t pay the rent.

“There’s just ... there’s no other way, Kenna,” he said, his voice raw with a desperation that mirrored my own. He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair, his blue eyes, usually so full of confident fire, now clouded with the smoke of defeat. “We’re out of options. The bank won’t extend another loan. My parents are tapped out. We have to ... you have to ask him.”

Him. The word hung in the air between us, ugly and potent. My father. James.

A cold dread, familiar and ancient, coiled in my gut, tightening around the precious life I carried. It was a feeling I hadn’t had to experience in years, a feeling I had carefully bricked up behind a wall of avoidance and distance.

“Owen, no,” I whispered, my voice barely a thread. “I can’t. You know why I can’t.”

He knelt in front of me, his large, warm hands covering mine on my belly. The baby gave a little flutter, as if sensing the tension. “Baby, I know. I know it’s ... complicated. I know he was an asshole to you. But that was years ago. People change. And we are drowning.” He looked from my eyes to the stack of bills and back again. The shame on his face was a knife in my heart. He felt like a failure, and asking this of me was his last, most painful resort. “He’s a multi-millionaire, Kenna. What we need is pocket change to him. For his own daughter. For his grandchild.”

My mind flashed back, an unwanted slide-show of memories I kept locked away. It wasn’t one single, monstrous event. It was a thousand tiny cuts. It was the way his eyes would linger on my body a second too long after I’d blossomed into a teenager. The “innocent” compliments that felt anything but;”You’ve grown into such a stunning woman, Kenna, you’ll break a lot of hearts,” he’d say, his gaze feeling like a physical touch on my skin. It was the time at my high school graduation party, when he’d pulled me in for a hug, his hand sliding just a little too low on my back, his breath too warm on my neck as he whispered, “My beautiful girl, all grown up.”

I’d told my mother, but she’d brushed it off. “Oh, Kenna, he’s just proud of you. You’re being overly sensitive.” After she passed away from cancer, it got worse. The loneliness seemed to curdle something inside him. He was clingier, his comments more direct. I’d started making excuses, avoiding his calls, until our relationship had withered to a perfunctory holiday text message. Meeting Owen was my escape. Marrying him was my declaration of independence from that cloying, uncomfortable shadow.

And now, my loving husband, the man who was supposed to be my safe harbor, was asking me to sail right back into that storm.

“It’s not just that he was an asshole, Owen,” I said, my voice shaking. “He ... he looked at me in a way a father should never look at his daughter. It made my skin crawl. It still does. What if he hasn’t changed? What if he thinks ... this money buys him something? Access? The right to be ... that way again?”

The pain in his eyes deepened. “Then you tell him to go to hell, and you walk out. But we have to try, Kenna. Please. For us. For him.” He gestured to my stomach.

That was the move that broke me. For him. I looked down at my belly, this perfect, innocent life I was responsible for. I couldn’t let my child be born into a world of eviction notices and constant stress. My own discomfort, my own past traumas, felt selfish when weighed against his future. My strength, my only real strength right now, was the fierce, primal love of a mother. I would walk through fire for this baby. I could walk into my father’s house.

Tears pricked my eyes. I nodded, a slow, jerky movement. “Okay,” I breathed. “Okay, Owen. I’ll go.”

His relief was a physical thing, a slumping of his shoulders, a deep exhalation. He kissed me, a tender, grateful press of lips. “Thank you, baby. I love you so much. You’re saving us.”

I didn’t feel like a savior. I felt like a sacrifice.

The drive to my father’s house was a journey through a different reality. I left behind the cracked pavement and graffiti-tagged walls of our neighborhood and merged onto the smooth, wide lanes of the highway that led to the affluent coastal enclave of Monarch Bay. The further I drove, the more the landscape transformed. The modest bungalows gave way to sprawling Spanish-style villas and sleek, modern mansions hiding behind formidable gates and lush, manicured hedges.

My old Honda Civic felt like a rusty dinghy navigating a sea of gleaming yachts—Teslas, Porsches, and Range Rovers glided past me with silent, electric authority. I clutched the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My pregnant body felt cumbersome and alien in the driver’s seat. I’d chosen my outfit with deliberate care: a loose, flowing maternity dress in a modest floral print. It was pretty, but its primary purpose was to de-emphasize my body, to render me as maternal and non-sexual as possible. A shield made of fabric.

I looked at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My face was fuller now, the pregnancy rounding out my cheekbones and softening the sharp line of my jaw. My long, dark brown hair was thick and lustrous, and my green eyes, usually my best feature, were wide with a familiar, hunted look. There was a supposed ‘glow’ to pregnancy, but today, I just felt pale and terrified. My breasts, now two full, heavy globes, strained against the fabric of my dress, their tips sensitive and tender. I was a vessel of life, my body re-purposed for the most sacred of tasks, and yet I was heading to the one place where I’d always felt it was just an object for appraisal.

Finally, I reached the towering wrought-iron gates of his estate. I took a deep, shaky breath and pressed the call button.

“Yes?” A crisp, unfamiliar voice answered. A housekeeper, maybe.

“It’s, uh ... it’s Kenna. To see James.”

There was a pause, then a buzz, and the heavy gates swung inward with a silent, imposing grace. The driveway was long and winding, paved with pale stones and lined with cypress trees that stood like silent sentinels. The house itself came into view, a monument of glass, steel, and white stone perched on the cliffside, with an infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the vast, blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. It was less a home and more a statement of power and wealth.

I parked my car next to a gleaming black Mercedes and felt a fresh wave of nausea. Taking another deep breath, I got out, my hand immediately going to my belly, my little anchor in this sea of dread. I walked to the massive front door, a slab of frosted glass that looked like it belonged in a museum. Before I could knock, it swung open.

And there he was.

My father, James, looked ... older. The last time I’d seen him in person was five years ago, at a distance, at a family friend’s funeral. His hair, once a distinguished salt-and-pepper, was now almost entirely silver, impeccably styled. The lines around his eyes were deeper, but those eyes—the same sharp, intelligent gray as a stormy sky—were the same. He was still fit, dressed in expensive-looking linen trousers and a soft, gray cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

His eyes fell on me, and then, immediately, to my stomach. A flicker of something I couldn’t decipher crossed his face. Not the look I feared. It was something softer. Surprise? Awe?

“Kenna,” he said, his voice a low rumble. It held a note of wonder.

“Hi, Dad,” I managed, my own voice thin and reedy.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at me, his gaze fixed on my pregnancy. Then he seemed to shake himself out of a trance. “My God. Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there.”

He stepped back, holding the door open. I walked past him, careful not to brush against him. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of sea salt and lemon oil. The interior was as stunning and impersonal as the outside. White marble floors, minimalist furniture, and huge abstract paintings on the walls. It was a beautiful prison.

He led me into a vast living room with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that offered a panoramic view of the ocean. The afternoon sun streamed in, making dust motes dance in the air.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to a sleek white leather sofa. “Can I get you something? Water? Juice?”

“Water would be fine. Thank you.”

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a tall glass of iced water with a slice of lime. He placed it on the glass coffee table in front of me and then sat in an armchair opposite, maintaining a respectful distance. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sound of crashing waves.

I decided to just get it over with. The suspense was killing me. “I, um ... I came here to ask you for something,” I began, my hands twisting in my lap. “It’s not easy for me to be here, or to ask this.”

He just watched me, his expression unreadable.

“Owen and I ... we’re in some financial trouble,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “His business ... it’s a good idea, a great one, but it’s taken everything. We’re behind on everything. The rent, the bills ... We’re about to lose our apartment.” I took a shaky breath, the shame burning my cheeks. “I’m here to ask you for a loan.”

I braced myself. For a lecture. For a smug ‘I told you so’ about marrying an entrepreneur instead of a lawyer. For a negotiation. For that creepy, possessive look to enter his eyes as he realized my desperation gave him leverage.

Instead, he did something that completely floored me. His face crumpled. The mask of the powerful, composed businessman fell away, and for a second, I saw a sad, old man.

“Kenna,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion I’d never heard from him before. Regret. “I am so, so sorry.”

I stared at him, confused. “Sorry?”

“Sorry that you’re in this position. Sorry that you even had to think twice about coming to your own father for help. Sorry that our relationship is so broken that you felt you had to come here, terrified, to beg me for what I should have been offering all along.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “And most of all ... I’m sorry for why it’s so broken. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted in the past.”

I was speechless. This was not in any of the scenarios I had run through in my head.

“After your mother died, I was ... lost,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And I was lonely. And I ... I handled it all wrong. I know I made you uncomfortable. I said things, I looked at you in ways ... it was inappropriate and it was wrong. There’s no excuse for it. It was a sick, crazy time in my life, and I was not a good father to you when you needed me most. I pushed you away with my own selfish bullshit.”

He looked up at me, and I saw tears glistening in his eyes. Actual tears. “I’ve been in therapy, Kenna. For the last three years. Trying to unpack all of my garbage. And the biggest, ugliest piece of it is how I failed you. The thought that you, my only child, are out there scared and struggling, while I’m sitting in this ridiculous, empty house ... it’s a disgrace.”

He stood up, walked over to a sleek desk in the corner, and took out a checkbook. He sat down and wrote, the scratching of the pen the only sound in the room. He didn’t ask how much I needed. He simply wrote, tore the check out, and folded it.

He walked back and placed it on the table in front of me. “This should be enough to clear all your debts and give you a comfortable cushion to prepare for the baby,” he said softly. “It’s not a loan. It’s a gift. An apology. A down payment on trying to be a father again, if you’ll let me.”

He sat back down, looking exhausted but earnest. “I don’t want to just be a checkbook, Kenna. I see you now, pregnant with my grandchild ... and all I can think is that I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want my grandchild to only know me as some stranger his mother is afraid of. Please ... don’t shut me out completely. Let me try to make this right. I’ll do anything. I’ll respect any boundary you set. Just ... give me a chance to be a grandfather.”

The dam inside me broke. The years of fear, resentment, and guardedness crumbled under the sheer, unexpected weight of his apology. A sob ripped from my throat, raw and painful. It was everything I had never known I wanted to hear. The validation that I wasn’t crazy, that I hadn’t been “overly sensitive.” The admission of his wrongdoing. The plea for a future.

I couldn’t speak. I just cried, great, heaving sobs of relief that shook my whole body.

He stayed in his chair, as if afraid to get closer without permission. “Kenna...” he whispered, his own voice breaking.

On pure instinct, I stood up and stumbled towards him. He shot to his feet, and I fell into his arms, burying my face in the soft cashmere of his sweater. I hugged him, my pregnant belly pressed between us, and I wept.

His arms came around me, and this time, the hug was different. It was firm, steady, and utterly paternal. There was no creepy lingering, no hand sliding too low. It was the hug of a father comforting his crying daughter. He just held me, one hand stroking my hair, whispering, “I’m so sorry, my girl. I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay now. I’ll help you. I’m here now.”

I don’t know how long we stood there, but when my sobs finally subsided, I felt ... lighter. As if a tumor of resentment I’d been carrying for a decade had just been surgically removed. I pulled back, wiping my eyes.

“Thank you,” I croaked. “Thank you, Dad.”

He gave me a watery smile. “Don’t thank me. Just let me be a part of your life. A part of his life.” He glanced down at my belly with a look of pure, unadulterated joy. A grandfather’s joy.

I picked up the check, my hand trembling. I didn’t even look at the amount. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling that my broken family was, impossibly, starting to heal.

As I left his house, the world looked different. The sun seemed warmer, the ocean bluer. The dread that had been my shadow was gone, replaced by a fragile, burgeoning hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be perfect after all.

When I got home, the apartment felt different, too. It wasn’t a cage of debt anymore; it was our home, our cozy little nest. Owen was waiting, pacing again, but this time with anxious hope instead of dread. The moment he saw my face, he knew.

“He did it?” he asked, his voice full of disbelief.

I couldn’t speak. I just held out the folded check. He took it from my trembling fingers and unfolded it. His eyes went wide. His jaw dropped.

“Kenna ... oh my God. Kenna, this is ... this is more than double what we need. This pays off everything. The business loans, the credit cards, everything. We’re ... we’re free.”

He looked at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears of relief. He swept me into his arms, lifting me off my feet and spinning me around before remembering the baby and setting me down gently, his hands framing my face.

“You did it,” he breathed, his forehead resting against mine. “You saved us. My amazing, incredible, brave wife.”

He kissed me, and it wasn’t just a kiss of gratitude. It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated adoration and relief. It was deep and hungry, a reclaiming of the passion that our financial stress had smothered for months. He backed me towards the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine, his hands roaming over my body, rediscovering curves and hollows.

“I love you,” he murmured against my lips. “God, I love you so much.”

That night, our lovemaking was a celebration. It was a baptism of fire and flesh, washing away the sins of debt and despair. In our small bedroom, with the moonlight filtering through the blinds, Owen undressed me with a reverence that made me feel like a goddess. He worshipped my pregnant body, treating it not as cumbersome but as sacred.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his hands stroking the heavy, ripe curve of my belly. “So fucking beautiful. Carrying our son.”

He knelt before me, his lips tracing a line from my navel downwards. My dress was pooled at my feet, and I stood before him in just my panties. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slowly slid them down my hips, his gaze hot and intense.

“I want to taste our freedom,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “I want to taste you.”

He pressed his face into the thatch of dark curls between my legs, inhaling deeply. My breath hitched. It had been so long since we’d been this uninhibited, this free from the weight of the world.

His tongue, hot and wet, flicked out and touched my clit through the thin fabric of my panties. A jolt of pure electricity shot through me, making my knees weak. I gripped his shoulders to steady myself.

“Owen...” I gasped.

He slid my panties off completely and tossed them aside. He parted my swollen pussy lips with his thumbs, exposing the glistening, pink folds within. My scent, earthy and sweet with arousal and pregnancy, filled the air between us.

“Perfect,” he breathed, before his mouth descended.

His tongue was a masterful instrument. He laved at my pussy folds, sucking and licking with a desperate hunger. He traced the sensitive rim of my entrance before plunging his tongue inside me, tasting my wetness. I moaned, my head falling back, my fingers tangling in his hair. He found my clit and began to circle it, first slowly, then with increasing speed and pressure.

“Oh, fuck ... yes, right there,” I panted, my hips starting to buck against his mouth.

He hummed in response, a deep, guttural sound of approval. He slid two fingers inside my slick channel, stretching me, feeling the tight, wet walls of my vagina grip him. He curled them upwards, searching.

“Tell me when, babe,” he murmured against my slick flesh.

His fingers brushed against the ridged, spongy patch of my G-spot. I gasped, a full-body shudder racking me. “There! Owen, there!”

He grinned against my pussy and began to pump his fingers in and out, deliberately stimulating that spot while his tongue continued its relentless assault on my clit. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure building in my core. My world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on my clit, his fingers inside my pussy, the scent of our mingled arousal, the sound of my own ragged moans.

“I’m close ... oh, God, I’m so close,” I cried out, my body tensing.

“Come for me, Kenna,” he commanded, his voice muffled. “Show me how good it feels to be free.”

That was all it took. With a final, desperate cry, my orgasm ripped through me. My inner walls clenched around his fingers, my pussy flooding with a torrent of slick wetness. My whole body convulsed, wave after wave of exquisite pleasure crashing over me.

He held me until the last tremor subsided, licking me clean with a devotion that brought tears to my eyes. He stood up, his own cock thick and straining against his jeans, a testament to his own arousal. He scooped me up and carried me to the bed, laying me down gently on the soft sheets.

He quickly shed his clothes, and I gazed at his body. He was beautiful. Lean muscle, a dusting of hair on his chest, and his cock, fully erect, jutting out from his body, thick and veined and magnificent.

He climbed onto the bed and positioned himself between my open legs. “I want to feel you,” he said, his voice husky. “I want to be inside my wife, inside our home, with no fear.”

He pressed the swollen head of his cock against my wet entrance, rubbing it up and down my slick pussy lips. I whimpered with need, my hips lifting off the bed to meet him.

“Please, Owen,” I begged.

With a low groan, he pushed forward, sinking into my tight, wet heat. I gasped as he filled me, stretching my pussy walls around his impressive girth. He was so thick, so deep. He paused, letting my body adjust to his size, our eyes locked.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” I breathed back.

Then he began to move. Slowly at first, then with increasing power and speed. Each thrust was a declaration, a claiming. He was driving away the ghosts of our past failures, fucking me with all the pent-up frustration and a newfound, explosive joy. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. The sound of our bodies slapping together, of our moans and gasps, filled the room.

I could feel my second orgasm building, a low, deep rumble starting in my womb. Owen felt it too. He started thrusting harder, faster, his own control starting to fray.

“Fuck, Kenna, you feel so good,” he grunted, his face buried in my neck. “So tight ... so wet ... you’re going to make me come.”

“Come with me, baby,” I cried out, my nails digging into his back. “Come inside me!”

My release slammed into me at the same moment his own broke. He roared my name as he pumped his hot seed deep inside me, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comforting presence, his heart hammering against mine.

We lay there for a long time, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, our bodies still humming with the aftershocks of our pleasure. The pile of red-inked bills on the coffee table was forgotten. For the first time in a long time, my life felt perfect. I had a loving husband who adored me. I had a father who was finally being the man I always needed him to be. And I had a baby on the way, a symbol of our bright, new, debt-free future. I drifted off to sleep in Owen’s arms, a genuine, contented smile on my face, completely unaware that the foundation of my perfect world was already fractured beyond repair.

The following weeks were a blissful dream. We paid off every single debt. The relief was palpable, a physical lightening of our souls. We celebrated by going out to a nice dinner, something we hadn’t been able to afford in over a year. Owen was like a new man. The stress lines around his eyes vanished, replaced by the old spark of creative genius. He poured his energy back into his app, and with the financial pressure gone, he secured two new major clients. Our future had never looked brighter.

My relationship with my father also began to blossom in this new, fertile ground. He kept his promise. He called, but never intrusively. He’d ask about my doctor’s appointments, about how I was feeling. He sent over articles about organic baby food and top-rated car seats. It was all so ... normal. So paternal.

He came over for dinner one evening. Owen, free from the shame of being unable to provide for his family, greeted him warmly. They talked about business, about technology, about sports. It was awkward at times, like watching two strangers try to learn a new dance, but it was a start. My father brought a ridiculously expensive-looking stuffed giraffe for the baby’s nursery. As he stood in the doorway of the small spare room we’d painted a soft yellow, a look of genuine, wistful happiness on his face, I thought my heart might burst.

This was it. This was the life I’d craved. A loving partnership, a healing family, a secure home for my child. I was glowing. People on the street commented on it. My friends said they’d never seen me happier. And it was true. I felt wrapped in a cocoon of love and safety.

One lazy Sunday morning, a month after my visit to my father’s house, I was floating in that perfect bubble. Owen and I were in bed, the morning sun painting stripes across the rumpled duvet. We’d just made love, a slow, tender, connected act that was more about intimacy than the frantic, celebratory fucking of a month ago.

He was inside me, still soft, and we were just holding each other. My head was on his chest, his arms wrapped around me, his hand resting on my belly. The baby was active this morning, and every time he kicked, a little tremor would pass through us.

“He’s gonna be a soccer player,” Owen chuckled, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“Or a dancer,” I murmured, content.

His cock, nestled deep inside my warm, slick pussy, began to harden again, a slow, lazy swelling that made me sigh with pleasure.

“Or maybe,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a husky growl, “he’s just happy his parents are about to fuck again.”

I laughed, a full, happy sound. I tilted my hips, grinding against him, my pussy walls clenching around his hardening length. “Maybe he is.”

He rolled me onto my back, his eyes dark with a familiar, loving lust. He propped himself up on his elbows, gazing down at me. “God, you’re beautiful, Kenna. My pregnant goddess.”

He began to move, long, slow, deep strokes that were designed for pure pleasure. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my hands tracing the muscles of his back. It was perfect. This moment, this man, this life. I was savoring every second of it. I met his thrusts, my moans soft and breathy. I was close, so close, the pleasure coiling tightly in my stomach. The baby kicked again, right against where Owen was pressing deep inside me. We both gasped, then laughed. It was surreal, and beautiful, and ours.

As my orgasm began to crest, I looked up into his face, wanting to memorize the look of love in his eyes. It was the last perfect moment I would ever have.

Two days later, my perfect world shattered.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Owen had been working from home, his company still too small for a proper office. He’d taken over the kitchen table, which was littered with laptops, legal pads, and empty coffee mugs. He was in the shower, the sound of the water a steady, mundane backdrop to the impending cataclysm.

I was tidying up, humming to myself as I gathered the coffee mugs. His work laptop was open, the screen glowing. A chat notification popped up in the corner of the screen, a little blue bubble with a name: Emma S.

Emma. His secretary. She was new. Young, eager, efficient. Owen had been singing her praises for weeks. “She’s a lifesaver, Kenna. So organized.”

The message preview was short.

Emma S: Last night was insane. Can’t stop thinking about you inside me.

The air in my lungs turned to ice. My humming stopped. The coffee mug in my hand felt impossibly heavy.

No.

It had to be a mistake. A joke. A wrong window. My mind scrambled for a rational explanation, a lifeline to pull me back from the abyss that was suddenly yawning at my feet.

My hand trembled as I reached for the mouse-pad. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. It felt like I was moving through water. With a click, I opened the chat window.

And the world ended.

It wasn’t a mistake. It was a whole history. Weeks of it. Scrolling up, I saw a story unfold in lurid, sickening detail. It started with professional, friendly messages. Then it became flirtatious. Jokes filled with innuendo. Then, compliments.

Owen: That dress you wore today should be illegal.

Emma S: Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, arrest me?;) Then came the plans.

Owen: Kenna’s at her birthing class tonight. My place?

Emma S: On my way. Wear that gray shirt I like.

My birthing class. While I was sitting on a yoga mat, breathing, focusing on bringing our child safely into the world, he was ... waiting for her. In our home. In our bed.

A wave of nausea so violent I had to grip the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. I kept scrolling, compelled by a morbid, self-destructive need to know everything. The words blurred through my tears. Explicit descriptions of what they’d done. What she did to him. What he did to her.

Emma S: I can still taste you. Can’t wait to have that cock in my mouth again.

Owen: You take it so well. Better than anyone.

Better than anyone. The words were a physical blow. I felt the air leave my body in a silent scream.

And then I saw the pictures. Selfies she’d sent him. Pouting lips, cleavage pushed up. A picture of her in lingerie, sprawled on what looked sickeningly like our duvet cover. A picture he had sent her—a close-up of his erect cock, a picture I recognized because he had sent a similar one to me months ago, in happier times. The timestamp was from last night. After he’d called to say he was working late, that he loved me and missed me.