I found out I was pregnant eleven months after the wedding.
Julian cried when I told him. Real tears. He picked me up and spun me around in the kitchen.
“A baby,” he kept saying. “Nora. We’re having a baby.”
The first few months were wonderful. He came to every appointment. He put his hand on my stomach every night. He read baby name books out loud in bed.
Then, somewhere around my fifth month, he started working late.
“We just landed a huge client,” he said. “A mixed-use development in South End. It’s going to be crazy for a while, babe. But it’s going to set us up. For the baby.”
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I?
The late nights turned into most nights. Seven o’clock. Then eight. Then ten. Then eleven.
He started taking his phone into the bathroom when he showered. He changed his passcode. When I asked why, he said it was “a company security thing.”
He started wearing cologne to work. A new one. Something expensive and woody. Tom Ford. He’d never worn cologne in his life.
“Client meetings,” he said. “You have to look the part.”
Maya was born on a Tuesday in early October. Eight pounds, two ounces. Dark hair. Furious lungs.
Julian was there for the birth. He held her once in the hospital. He took a picture for Instagram. Then his phone buzzed, and he stepped out into the hallway to take a call.
He was gone for forty minutes.
When he came back, he said it was the client. The South End project. A crisis.
My mother looked at me across the hospital room. She didn’t say anything. But I saw her face.
I went on maternity leave from Whitfield & Crane. Twelve weeks.
And Julian disappeared.
Not physically. He came home. Eventually. At eleven. At midnight. He slept in the guest room “so the baby won’t wake me up, I have to be sharp for work.”
He never changed a diaper. He never did a night feeding. He never once gave her a bath.
I did it all. Alone. On two hours of sleep.
And every day, I sent him pictures of Maya. Her first smile, which was probably gas. Her tiny fist wrapped around my finger. Her asleep on my chest.
Because I thought he was missing her.
Because I thought he’d want to see.
She’s driving me insane. Texting pictures of the baby every hour.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.