On the fifth night, the work ended earlier than expected, and I decided not to tell anyone I was coming home. I drove through the darkness while rain tapped steadily against the windshield and bitter gas station coffee burned my throat the entire way back.
When I finally pulled into the driveway before sunrise, the neighborhood was silent except for one dog barking somewhere far away. A trash can had tipped near the curb, and the wet morning air smelled cold and stale.
But my house did not smell like a home with a newborn baby inside.
There was no scent of warm food, clean laundry, or baby lotion.
Only cold air and something sour beneath it.
The moment I stepped through the front door, I saw my mother and Ashley asleep on the couch beneath heavy blankets while the air conditioner blasted through the house. Empty pizza boxes, soda bottles, and chip bags covered the coffee table.
