She drove home without saying anything to anyone. The entire way, she kept whispering that he was sleeping, that everything would be fine, that Mrs. Linda was overreacting, that babies were stronger than people thought.
But the closer she got to the building, the less she believed herself.
When Maya arrived, Mrs. Linda was waiting for her in the hallway. The elderly woman was still wearing her slippers, her face pale, one hand pressed against the wall as if she needed it to keep herself standing.
“Maya,” she said, and her voice broke before she could finish.
Maya walked past her and fumbled with the keys.
The door opened.
The apartment was silent.
Too silent.
She walked toward the bedroom, and with every step, the lie she had carried with her for three days began to fall apart.
The bottle was still beside the crib.
Untouched.
