My husband appeared on the baby monitor every night at 2 a.m. carrying a mysterious paper bag—when I finally watched him open it, I gasped

stroller.

“Mara,” he said. “I can explain.”

His voice was not defensive.

It was ashamed.

“It’s okay,” I said, struggling around the tightness in my throat. “I read it, watched the camera, and I understand.”

His body softened against mine.

“You watched the camera?”

I nodded.

He looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him.

“I know this looks bad.”

“It continue reading …