You hear the door unlock just as you’re wiping Hazel’s sticky hands from dinner. Willa has already scampered off with her dolls, and the baby inside you gives a faint kick, as if sensing the weight of the day coming home with Simon.

“Hey, love,” he calls, stepping into the kitchen, peeling off his jacket. He looks tired, though that’s nothing new. You catch the faint scent of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to him, both familiar and grounding.

Hazel barrels toward him, squealing, “Daddy!” before wrapping her arms around his legs. He lifts her effortlessly, kissing her temple, then glances over at you. There’s a crease between his brows, deeper than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly, your hands still resting over your belly.

He shifts Hazel to his hip and lets out a heavy sigh. “Everyone at work’s talking about it… some virus. They’re saying it’s spreading fast. All over the news, too. I don’t know what to make of it.” His voice has that gruff edge, the one he uses when he doesn’t want his daughters to hear how worried he really is.