A green moving truck arrived before my husband came home

The delivery driver left the thirty-pound box of baby wipes on the bottom step of the porch, right where the dry oak leaves scraped across the concrete.

I had to wedge the heavy cardboard against my thirty-six-week belly just to get a grip on the slick plastic packing tape.

Inside the living room, the television screen flashed green and blue as Jake guided his virtual soldier through a ruined city.

“Jake, could you grab the back end of this?” I asked, my boots sliding slightly on the linoleum as I held the door open with my foot.

He did not look up from the television, his thumbs moving in small, frantic circles on the black controller.

“Just set it down, things will work out,” he said, his voice level and entirely detached from the effort in the room.

I carried the heavy box into the kitchen myself, the rough edge of the cardboard scraping against my maternity jeans.

The baby kicked hard against my ribs, a sharp, localized pressure that made me catch my breath and lean against the counter.

On the kitchen table sat the weekly grocery receipt showing four dollars and ten cents for a single gallon of milk.

Our shared bank account was down to eighty-four dollars, and the rent on this Elm Street bungalow was due in three days.

I stood there in the quiet kitchen, watching the back of my husband’s head as he clicked the plastic buttons.

The question that had been hovering over us for months finally felt heavy and concrete: would Jake actually step up when the baby arrived, or was I completely on my own?

“Did you call the insurance office about the delivery coverage?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet.

“I am right in the middle of a match, Clara,” he said, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the monitor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers tracing the collar of his faded t-shirt, a gesture I had seen every time I asked him about our budget.

I set the box of wipes by the yellow nursery dresser we bought for fifty dollars at a neighborhood garage sale.

The dresser smelled of old pine and fresh wax, a clean scent that didn’t quite cover the damp wool smell of the blankets stacked nearby.

I wanted to believe his laziness was just a phase, a temporary panic before the reality of fatherhood set in.

But my fingers found my silver wedding band, twisting the metal around my finger as the game console beeped loudly.

He had not looked at the nursery budget in three weeks, leaving the blue leather planner on his desk completely untouched.

I opened the pantry to check our soup cans, counting six of them lined up on the lower shelf.

The noise of the television game rose in volume, a sharp burst of synthetic gunfire that made me jump.

“Jake, the volume,” I said.

“It is fine, Clara,” he said, not moving an inch from his spot on the sofa.

I shut the pantry door and walked back to the hallway, my boots heavy on the thin carpet.

I could hear the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen, a steady, low vibration that seemed to run through the floorboards.

At five o’clock, the light outside the small bungalow on Elm Street turned a dull, bruised purple.

The smell of damp wool and fresh yellow paint from the nursery downstairs filtered up into Jake’s small home office.

He was sitting in his leather chair, staring at a blank spreadsheet with his fingers resting on his temple.

I laid the yellow insurance form on top of his computer keyboard, the blank signature lines staring back at us.

“The clinic needs the pre-authorization by tomorrow morning,” I said, placing my hand on the desk to steady myself.

Jake rubbed the back of his neck again, his eyes tracking a bird outside the window rather than the paper.

“My head is splitting, Clara, I can’t look at these small numbers right now,” he said.
“It is just one signature, Jake. Dr. Alan’s office called twice today to remind us.”

“I said I have a headache,” he said, sliding the yellow paper toward the edge of the desk with his index finger.

“The deductible has to be settled before the twenty-fourth of November,” I said, my voice dropping.

“Things will work out,” he said, turning his chair back toward the dark window.

I picked up the form, the paper crisp and cold in my fingers, and folded it into thirds.

“I can’t schedule the final ultrasound without this,” I said, waiting for him to look at me.

He remained silent, his shoulder turned toward the wall, his eyes fixed on the gray sky outside.

I put the paper in my pocket, the silver wedding ring on my left hand catching the dim desk light as I turned away.

On his desk, a small stack of unopened mail sat next to his coffee cup, the top envelope from his mother’s real estate office.

I wanted to ask him why Brenda was mailing him letters at our house, but my lower back was throbbing too much to start the argument.