Page 58 of The Golden Hour

She looks so beautiful it hurts.

She always does, but this—holding Daisy in her arms—she’s more radiant than the sun.

“Can I come in?” he whispers.

Honey looks at him for a long moment, arms tightening slightly around Daisy before she nods once.

Mason slips into the room, closing the door behind him without a sound, before padding over to Honey, who is now smiling down at their daughter again.

“Where are your parents?”

“They went home,” Honey says, her voice flat. “They’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

Mason nods even though she’s not looking at him. Her eyes are all for Daisy.

He can’t help but smile watching them together.

“She looks so much like you,” Mason murmurs.

“That’s what my mom and dad said,” Honey murmurs, pressing a kiss to Daisy’s head.

Closing her eyes, she gently inhales that addictive baby scent. Honey always talked about it with longing back when he was an intern and a resident, and she worked at the daycare. She would come home with stories about babies tucked against her chest as she rocked them to sleep, and their adorable sleepy little heads that smelled like warmth.

Mason remembers pulling her into his arms, promising that one day it would be their baby she was smelling, which made her giggle and kiss him breathless.

Honey hums, gently pressing her cheek against the top of Daisy’s head. They took off her little cap earlier, exposing some dark hair on Daisy’s head that he knows—and hopes—won’t stay. He hopes she has Honey’s blonde hair. He hopes she has her big brown eyes and her button nose. He promised her he’d give her that.

“Why are you here?”

Mason blinks. The words are so soft he almost thinks he imagined them.

But no, those raspy words came from his wife.

“What?”

“Why are you here, Mason?” Honey asks, finally glancing up at him.

“Because…” His throat catches, and he splutters, “Baby, y-you just had our baby. Where else would I be?”

“I suppose that was a stupid question, actually,” Honey says, shaking her head as she glances around the room. “You’re already home.”

“Baby—”

“This place is your home, right? Where you’d rather be?” Honey huffs a small laugh.

It sounds empty.

“How convenient,” she says. “We came to you, and you finally saw us.”

“Honey,” Mason rasps. “I am so sorry about this.”

“About what?” Honey asks. “About preeclampsia? About your absence for the last nine months? Missing just about every appointment? Missing our baby shower? Not responding to my texts or calls? Telling me to quiet down when I was throwing up? Missing dinners and date nights? What are you sorry for, Mason?”

Every word hits Mason like a punch to the throat. Blow after blow of his actions, his failures, his selfishness, and he cannot even defend himself. How can you defend against the truth? How can you explain away a wound when the person bleeding is in front of you?

“Are you sorry for treating me like an incubator?”

That one makes Mason sick enough to find his voice, “No, I didn’t⁠⁠—”