Still, I began paying attention.
It happened around the same time most nights. I only realized that after waking from a nightmare, drenched in sweat, and checking my phone.
It was 2:07 a.m.
Ethan’s side of the bed was empty.
I listened but heard no toilet flushing or footsteps elsewhere in the house.
Only silence.
Then Noah made a soft snuffling sound in the bassinet, and I reached for my phone to open the baby monitor app.
We had installed the nursery camera before he was born, even though we expected him to sleep in our room for a while. Its angle captured much of the floor as well.
I had used it a few times during daytime naps while folding laundry downstairs.
That night, I opened it mainly to reassure myself that Ethan was in the nursery arranging diapers, cleaning the changing pad, or doing some other random task brought on by exhaustion.
He was not there live.
Then I saw the playback option.
I do not know why I pressed it. Maybe it was instinct or anxiety. Sleep deprivation and hormones had turned a low-level paranoia into my constant companion.
I rewound to the previous night.
At 2:20 a.m., Ethan opened the nursery door.
He carried a paper bag.
He walked to the crib and checked Noah. Then he remained there for a moment with one hand resting on the rail before sitting on the floor beside the rocking chair.
At first, I could not identify what he took from the bag. I saw crumpled wrappers, a takeout container, and something small and glassy that reflected the night-light.
Then he leaned over a notebook on his knee and began writing.
I stared at the screen, confused.
I checked the next night.
Again, at 2:20 a.m., he entered with a paper bag and repeated the same routine. He checked the crib, sat on the floor, opened the bag, ate, drank, and wrote.
I searched further back.
He had been doing it every night for nearly a month.
Sometimes the food came from a burger restaurant, sometimes from the corner convenience store, and once from a fast-food place, judging by the grease spreading through the bag.
Every night followed the same hidden ritual.
And every night, he looked destroyed.
He did not appear relaxed or sneaky in the way I imagined someone having an affair might behave. He looked hollow and folded inward, as though standing upright would cause the walls around him to collapse.
Still, when I finally saw the contents clearly, my stomach dropped.
By morning, I had created three different explanations, and none were good.
Maybe he was drinking every night because he could not sleep otherwise.
Maybe he ate secretly because dinner was not enough.
Or perhaps he was writing down all the reasons he regretted this life, our baby, and me.
When I woke at seven, Ethan was already in the nursery.
I watched him lift Noah with the same gentle awkwardness he had shown since the first day.
He always supported our son’s head as though his hands were not worthy of holding something so delicate.
Then he noticed me.
“You okay?”
I realized I had been staring.
“Fine,” I lied.
He frowned. “You sure?”
I almost confronted him then.
Instead, I asked, “Did you sleep?”
The question made me angry for reasons I could not explain.
The answer should have been no. Of course he had not slept. He spent every night in the nursery with junk food, alcohol, and a hidden notebook while I believed he was beside me.
“Great,” I snapped.
His eyebrows rose.
“I made coffee,” he said carefully.
That had become our life—Ethan approaching me like a frightened man walking across thin ice, unsure which step might crack the surface.
