Leah with Emma and Clara.
Noah at the yard.
Caleb and Owen.
Marlowe sprawled across Noah’s lap.
The apartment kitchen at Christmas.
Then photographs of us.
Not kisses.
Not bed.
Nothing that demanded intimacy.
A picture of Noah leaning over my shoulder while I worked at the desk. One from a summer cookout, his hand at my waist. Another taken on the deck of a ferry, both of us laughing into the wind.
I nearly deleted that one.
Leah stopped me.
“He looks happy.”
“That’s the problem.”
“No. It’s the truth.”
We printed twenty-four photographs.
The machine produced them slowly, each page sliding forward with a quiet mechanical hum.
Leah arranged them in a small album.
At three, we returned to the ward carrying dinner from a deli Noah liked and the blue album tucked into her bag.
He was awake.
A menu lay on the table before him, and frustration had drawn a deep line between his brows.
“Trouble?” I asked.
He looked up.
The smile he gave me was polite.
Then he saw Leah.
His entire face changed.
I turned away under the pretense of setting down the food.
“What’s wrong with the menu?” Leah asked.
“Too many words.”
“You don’t have to read it now.”
