Emma still cried in her sleep, and sometimes, when she stared into space, her eyes looked far away… almost lost.
Last month, I started noticing something strange.
Every night, around midnight, Evan would quietly leave our bedroom.
When I asked, he said calmly,
“My back hurts, honey. The couch in the living room feels better.”
I believed him.
But a few nights later, when I got up for water, I realized he wasn’t on the couch.
He was in Emma’s room.
The door was slightly open. A soft orange nightlight glowed through the gap.
He was lying next to her, his arm gently around her shoulders.
I froze.
“Why are you sleeping here?” I whispered sharply.
He looked up, tired but calm.
“She was crying again. I went in to comfort her and must’ve fallen asleep.”
It sounded reasonable, but something inside me wouldn’t rest — a heavy, uneasy feeling, like the warm still air before a summer storm.
