She had planned an exit.
That was different.
And perhaps that difference was why she could breathe.
Lily stirred beside her and blinked up sleepily.
“Mom?” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Are we really going to Aunt Mira’s?”
Julianne smiled. “Yes. She’s waiting for us.”
“In London?”
“Yes.”
Lily thought about that, then asked, “Does Dad know?”
Julianne looked at her daughter’s face, still soft with childhood but already too familiar with adult tension.
“He knows we’re safe,” she said carefully. “And he knows we’re leaving.”
“Will he be mad?”
The question pierced gently because it had become so ordinary in their house. Will Dad be mad? Will Dad yell? Will Dad blame us? Will Dad stop talking to us?
Julianne brushed a curl away from Lily’s forehead. “His feelings are his responsibility, sweetheart. Not yours.”
Lily absorbed this as if it were a new kind of mathematics.
Then she nodded and closed her eyes again.
Julianne stared ahead into the quiet cabin.
His feelings are his responsibility.
How many years had it taken her to learn that?
Back in Chicago, Marcus stormed out of the clinic before the appointment had officially ended.
He did not wait for Penelope. He did not ask if she needed help sitting up. He did not ask about the baby’s heartbeat, the next appointment, the vitamins, the due date, or whether she was frightened.
He walked through the clinic hallway with his family trailing behind him like a broken procession.
In the parking lot, cold wind cut between the buildings.
Roxanne hurried to his side. “Marcus, slow down.”
He spun around. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start telling me what to do.”
She recoiled, offended. “I’m on your side.”
