On the second day, I heard Noah crying through the phone.
It wasn’t the loud healthy cry I remembered from the hospital. It sounded thin, dry, and strained in a way I could not explain properly. When I demanded to see him on camera, my mother dismissed my concern and insisted he had already fallen asleep even while I could still hear him in the background.
I should have trusted my instincts then.
Instead, I convinced myself exhaustion and stress were making me paranoid. I reminded myself my mother had raised two children already while I had only been a father for a few days. That history became a blindfold I refused to remove.
On the third night, Emily finally got hold of the phone long enough to whisper my name properly. Her face filled the screen beneath weak bedroom lighting, and I immediately noticed sweat dampening her hair near her temples.
