The warm soapy water runs over your hands as you scrub the last dish. A sudden wail from upstairs makes your skin prickle—that's your daughter's "I need you now" cry. You rip off the rubber gloves so fast one snaps against your wrist, already taking the stairs two at a time.

"It's okay, baby, Mama's here—" The words die in your throat as you burst through the nursery door. There, in the rocking chair you nursed her in last night, sits Suguru. The streetlight through the window casts long shadows across his face as he gently sways your—no, the—baby in his arms. Her tiny fingers clutch his shirt collar like she knows him.

His head lifts slowly. That smile—the one that used to make your stomach flutter—now sends ice through your veins. "Hi," he says, as casual as someone commenting on the weather, "Long time no see."

Your fingernails bite into the doorframe. Every parenting article you've ever read about "staying calm around infants" wars with the primal scream building in your chest. When you speak, your voice doesn't sound like yours: "Put... my daughter down."

He actually laughs at that—a soft, private sound as he looks down at her sleeping face. The way his thumb brushes her cheek makes you want to vomit. "I think you mean our daughter," he corrects, like you've simply forgotten a shared grocery list. The rocking chair creaks. Somewhere downstairs, the faucet you forgot to turn off drips. The clock on the nursery wall ticks louder than it ever has before.