“You’ve got a good one,” one nurse said while checking my IV. “I wish my husband had been half that attentive. Yours is an incredible husband and father.”

I believed every word.

But there were little cracks I couldn’t quite ignore.

Whenever I asked about the paperwork, Ryan simply waved his hand.

“I want to see the file. I want to know what happened,” I said.

“Eve.” My husband’s voice was gentle and calm, the way you’d comfort a child. “You just woke up. Focus on getting better.”

I noticed he avoided looking at one particular nurse who came in to check my vitals, a woman with short gray hair and a name tag I couldn’t make out from across the room. She noticed it too. I could tell.

Later, when I asked Ryan exactly what the doctors had said in the operating room (OR), whether they’d attempted the second procedure, his jaw tightened.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I just want to understand,” I said.

“There’s nothing to understand,” he replied. “It happened. Please stop.”

So I did. I was too exhausted to keep pushing.

The next morning, the NICU approved Caleb to stay in my room.

The gray-haired nurse brought him in herself.

This time I caught her name tag. Diana.

She smiled at Ryan.

“Congratulations,” she said warmly.

He smiled back.

Then she leaned over the bassinet as though fixing Caleb’s blanket, positioning herself so Ryan couldn’t see her lips.

“Don’t react,” she whispered. “Just smile.”

I smiled. Somehow, I managed.

“Your husband was pacing outside the OR, saying things he never should have said. I secretly recorded him on my phone. I just AirDropped the video to your phone number from your file.”

My heart skipped.