With Jennifer's constant insistence, we finally left the health facility a week later. She wanted out the same day she woke up—but the pediatrician made it clear: Sophie could only be discharged from the NICU after one full week of careful monitoring. That, and only that, made Jennifer yield.
We decided to move to her childhood home in Town M. A quiet town, surrounded by hills and whispers of snow, far from the noise and pace of NY city. We needed peace. Especially her. Especially now.
But Town M was far—farther even than W city, where Mrs. Rauss lived. A straight drive would take twenty hours without rest, something Jennifer's heart couldn't endure. And with her condition, a flight was out of the question.
Then Bruno stepped forward.
He offered to teleport us.
Knowing there was no other choice—and after long hesitation—Jennifer finally agreed.
Now, standing in the middle of the facility's grand lobby with Sophie swaddled in my left arm and Jennifer tucked gently in the crook of my right, I wait with a backpack strapped over one shoulder. The bag's stuffed with gifts—tiny clothes, plushies, bottles, and a ridiculous pink hat from Fred.
Bruno stands in front of us, his expression composed but kind.
"You guys ready?" he asks.
I turn to Jennifer. She nods once, silently.
"Yes. We're ready," I answer.
Bruno steps closer, placing one hand on each of my arms. "Close your eyes. On three, take a deep breath."
We obey.
"One… two… three…"
The world collapses and explodes at once. My stomach flips, twists, and turns into knots. My balance leaves me. It's over in a second.
"We're here. You can open your eyes," Bruno says.
Jennifer immediately stumbles forward and bends over. She throws up onto the snow-blanketed ground.
"Baby, are you okay?" I reach toward her instinctively, worry thick in my voice.
Still crouched, she nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face is pale, but she steadies herself.
"It's common for first-timers to throw up," Bruno says, offering a sympathetic smile.
Jennifer says nothing. Her silence speaks more than words.
Bruno scratches his neck, awkward.
"I'll take her to the terrace," Jennifer says suddenly, extending her arms toward me. "It's snowing."
I hesitate only a moment before gently placing Sophie into her cradle and setting it in Jennifer's arms. "Be careful," I murmur.
She nods again and steps toward the house's old wooden terrace, disappearing behind the snow-draped doorframe.
"Thanks, man," I say quietly, patting Bruno's shoulder twice.
"You're welcome," he replies, eyes still fixed on the spot where Jennifer vanished. Then, more softly, "Take care of your family."
"I will," I promise.
When I turn to follow Jennifer inside, I glance back one last time—but Bruno is already gone.
"We're home, Baby…"
Jennifer whispers those words softly into Sophie's ear, her lips brushing our daughter's temple. I know she's talking to Sophie—not me—but I still respond, as if her words are meant for both of us.
"Yes. We're home," I murmur, leaning in to kiss her forehead.
But before my lips can reach her, she turns her face away.
All I can do is sigh. "How long are you going to stay angry at me?" I ask, watching her settle onto the couch.
"I'm tired," she replies—not an answer, just an excuse.
I breathe out again, clinging to patience. "Okay. You should rest in your parents' room. It's not safe for you to climb the stairs."
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she hands Sophie over to me, gently, as if I'm just a stranger she's passing a package to. Then she grabs the baby bag and starts walking away—but not toward the bedroom.
I reach out and stop her with a hand on her arm. "Where are you going?"
"I need to pump my breast first," she answers flatly.
My fingers instinctively let her go. The cold tone in her voice wraps around me like ice. Without another word, she slips into the kitchen and disappears from view.
I don't follow her. I don't press. Instead, I sit down on the couch, holding our peacefully sleeping daughter, and let the silence settle in again.
She's been like this ever since I told her what I'd done to save her. Distant. Cold. Emotionally unreachable. Her words to me are clipped and brief. Her touch, almost nonexistent.
And me?
I endure it.
Because I have to.
Because her heart can't take another shock—not now. And the last thing I want is to be the reason it gives out.
So I bite my tongue. I hold the silence. I carry the weight.
My gaze drifts toward the pile of boxes stacked neatly by the front window—our things from the NY city apartment. For the sake of erasing Jennifer's existence from my life, Lily had Charlotte wipe every memory of her from those who once knew her. She even altered a young couple's mind to believe they'd lived in our apartment for years. Then she ordered underlings to clear out everything Jennifer and I ever owned.
Charlotte has since reversed the memory wipes. She was also the one who tracked down our belongings, hidden in one of Lily's safe houses.
Now, they're here. Every piece of our past packed neatly in cardboard.
"The milk," Jennifer says, stepping in front of me and holding out a bottle.
"Thank you, Baby," I say softly, reaching for it. I glance up at her face—and my heart stirs.
She's pale. Too pale. A few beads of sweat glisten on her forehead.
"Are you in pain?" I ask quickly, concern breaking through the calm.
"No," she says curtly, then turns away and walks toward the bedroom without another word.
I sit back on the couch, the warmth of Sophie in my arms, the silence in the house louder than any scream. I've said it before—I'm not an emotional man.
But her coldness?
Her distance?
It's breaking me in ways I never thought possible.
And for the first time in a long time… I have to fight to keep a tear from falling.