I nodded, swallowing the bile of suspicion. Pregnancy hormones, I told myself. Just paranoia.

But Emma noticed. Children are like seismographs for parental tension; they feel the tremors long before the earthquake hits. She stopped running to the door when his car pulled into the driveway. Instead, she would stand at the top of the stairs, watching him with a gaze that was calculating and strangely fearful.

“Did something happen with Daddy?” I asked her one afternoon while braiding her hair.

Emma stiffened. “No,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual melodic lilt. She looked at me in the mirror, her eyes swimming with a secret she couldn’t quite articulate. “Nothing happened.”

As my due date arrived, the distance became a chasm. Mark was a ghost in his own house, returning only to change suits and offer vague platitudes.