I did not remember Camille actually coming to the hospital, and I certainly did not think Sophie knew. Attached to the log was a grainy screenshot from the hospital security camera showing Camille standing in the corridor outside our room, and there I was, with my arm around her waist and my mouth near her ear. I dropped the paper as if it were burning my skin.
There was another, clearer photo of us by the vending machines with Camille’s hand on my chest, followed by a copy of the text message I had sent her at eleven that night: “She is asleep, the baby is healthy, and I honestly wish you were the one in that bed.”
I forgot how to breathe as I read those words again. They were mine, written by a man who had used the most sacred night of his life to tell another woman he wished she were in his wife’s place. It proved emotional absence far worse than any physical act. I sat there for hours, the house feeling massive and accusingly quiet, until my phone buzzed again with a message from Camille: “Baby, are you okay because you are awfully quiet?”
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. A few hours ago, I would have replied with something charming, but now her message felt obscene. Another buzz arrived: “Trevor, don’t tell me the wife finally figured it out.”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly across the hardwood floor, and I dialed her number with shaking fingers. She answered on the second ring, her voice light and amused.
“There he is,” she chirped.
“Did you come to the hospital when our daughter was born?” I asked, my voice strained.
There was a long silence on the other end, and I knew the answer before she spoke.
“Why does that matter, Trevor?” she sighed.
“Answer me,” I demanded, gripping the edge of the counter.
She exhaled sharply, and she said, “Yes, I was there.”
“You told me you were at home that entire night,” I said, my chest tightening.
“I was worried about you,” she replied defensively.
“You came to the maternity ward?” I asked, feeling the room tilt.
“I did not go into the room,” she insisted.
“You were standing right outside it,” I countered.
“So what?” she said, her voice turning cold.
“So my wife knew everything,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“What did you expect?” Camille laughed, though it sounded forced. “Because you were married and had a baby, so of course she was going to find out eventually.”
