Our baby was just a month old when my wife vanished, leaving only a note. “Honey, it’s the planetary alignment, happens once every 77 years. I’ve time-traveled. Don’t worry about me. See you when I see you.” For three years of marriage, she’d used one absurd excuse after another, all to go on vacation with the one who got away. When our son, unable to breastfeed and refusing formula, was rushed to the hospital with a twisted intestine, she was in Norway with Evan, watching the Northern Lights. When our son was undergoing emergency surgery, she was with Evan in a hot air balloon, high above the clouds. When the doctors handed me the critical condition notice for our son, she was with Evan under the Eiffel Tower, sharing a passionate kiss as fireworks exploded overhead. She didn't return until just before our son’s 100-day celebration, carrying a cheap, dollar-store plastic soldier. “Honey, I’m back from my travels! Look, a present for our son. From now on, we’ll all be a happy family.” That was when I finally saw her for who she was, and all hope died. On the day of our son’s celebration, I vanished too, leaving a note of my own. “Planet Gamma has summoned me back to the mothership. The child stays. Don’t look for me. This is goodbye.” 1 Our son was wailing, his face turning purple as he refused the bottle, when my eyes fell on the note left on the table: “Honey, it’s the planetary alignment, happens once every 77 years. I’ve time-traveled. Don’t worry about me. See you when I see you.” The bottle slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. She’d done it again. Snuck off behind my back, abandoning her one-month-old son. Three years of marriage, and her excuses only grew more fantastical. I pulled out my phone, tracked her location. She was overseas. I knew she was with Evan again, off on another one of their trips. Three years of our life together, meaningless against the ghost of her first love. A suffocating weight settled in my chest. Just then, the baby’s cries stopped. A stream of white liquid shot from his mouth. His diaper filled with a horrifying, jelly-like blood. Panic seized me. I fumbled for my phone and dialed for an ambulance. Cradling my son’s pale, limp body, I was drenched in a cold sweat. He was curled in my arms, his tiny hands clenched in pain. One of the paramedics shouted, “It looks like intussusception! We need to get him to the ICU, now!” His heart-wrenching cries echoed down the hall as they wheeled him into the emergency room. A nurse grabbed my arm. “Where is the baby’s mother? We need to ask some questions about the infant’s condition before we can operate.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My voice came out a raw, hoarse whisper. “It’s just me.” “The mother isn’t here?” My own lips trembled, a hot sting behind my eyes. “She’s dead,” I rasped. A flicker of pity crossed the nurse’s face. Her voice softened. “Don’t worry. We’ll make your son our top priority.” To me, after three years of her cold indifference, she might as well have been. Just as they pushed my son through the doors, my phone vibrated. It was a new photo from the private investigator I’d hired. In it, my wife, Irene, was clinging to Evan, the two of them gazing up at the Northern Lights against the dark Norwegian sky. She had once promised we would see the Northern Lights together on our honeymoon. She kept putting it off, always for work. Now I understood. It wasn't about work. It was simply that I wasn't the one she wanted to see them with. As the oxygen mask was placed over my son’s tiny face, my heart sank to the floor. A cold draft from the emergency room doors seemed to seep into my very bones, a chill that ravaged every cell in my body. The light above the operating room door suddenly went out. A doctor emerged, handing me a critical condition notice. I was shaking too hard to stand, fighting back a wave of terror as I scrawled my name on the form. At that exact moment, my phone screen lit up with another image: Irene and Evan, locked in a passionate kiss beneath the glittering Eiffel Tower. The light went out again. This time, they wheeled my son’s tiny body out of the room. My vision blurred. He had been to hell and back. I leaned down and gently kissed his forehead. From this day forward, I vowed, it’s just you and me. After the surgery, my son was incredibly weak. I was sitting by his hospital bed when my mother-in-law pushed the door open, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And where is Irene? Her son is sick, and she’s not even notified?” A cold smile touched my lips. “She said she time-traveled. She’s vanished.” My mother-in-law’s face fell. Realizing it was just another one of Irene’s excuses, she turned her frustration on me. “Look at you. Can’t even take care of a simple baby. Useless.” Then she turned to my son, a wide, doting smile spreading across her face. “Oh, my handsome grandson. You look just like your mother.” I was used to her veiled insults. My grandfather and Irene’s had been brothers-in-arms. After my parents died in the line of duty, my grandfather, on his deathbed, entrusted me to her family. That was the only reason Irene had agreed to marry me. For all these years, I had stayed in this family for her grandfather’s sake. And it was only to fulfill his dying wish that she had agreed to have a child with me. 2 I had fulfilled my end of the promise. After the baby’s 100-day celebration, I would leave the Vance family for good. My mother-in-law cooed at my son for a few more minutes, then left, satisfied, leaving me alone to care for him. I stayed at the hospital, not sleeping, not resting, until the day he was discharged. Irene never showed. My phone, however, was a constant stream of photos of her and Evan, their intimacy a series of fresh wounds. When we got home, my mother-in-law dismissed the nanny with a smug smile. “You’re the man of the house now, the one who married into the family. Since you have nothing better to do all day, you can stay home and take care of the child.” The baby was fragile after his surgery. He cried often through the night. He wouldn’t take formula, and with no mother’s milk, he grew thinner and thinner. Seeing him waste away was a constant, stabbing pain in my heart. I spent that month teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown. And then there were the messages from Evan, dripping with scorn. “So what if you married her, Mason? The one she’ll always love is me.” I clicked on the video he sent. A grainy, tangled image of two bodies, the sound a mix of a man’s heavy breathing and a woman’s soft moans. In the dead of night, I would watch my son’s peaceful face as he slept, my own heart aching. My social media feed was a gallery of Evan and Irene’s trip around the world, a new photo marking each new city. I tortured myself, scrolling through hundreds of them. The comments from their friends were a special kind of hell. “Living the life, Irene! Husband’s at home with the baby while you’re off seeing the world.” “Seriously, what was the excuse this time? How’d you manage to escape?” Irene’s reply was right there for all to see. “I told him it was the 77-year planetary alignment and I time-traveled.” “LMAO, Irene, only you could come up with that. Aren’t you afraid your husband will be pissed?” Her response: “He’s put up with it for three years. He’ll put up with this. He’ll just be at home waiting for me, like a good boy.” So my tolerance, my patience over the past three years, had become nothing more than a running joke between her and her friends. Too bad for her. This time, I wouldn’t be so forgiving. I spent the night staring into the darkness, my heart a hollow ache. Just after dawn, a frantic knocking echoed through the house. “Honey, I’m home! And I brought a present for our son!” I opened the door. Evan was standing next to her, impeccably dressed. He looked me up and down with a sneer. “Mason, you look like a mess. A man needs to take care of himself, you know.” I was in my baggy house clothes, a smear of dried spit-up on the collar. Evan wrinkled his nose, pulling a bottle of cologne from his bag and spritzing himself liberally. “What’s that sour milk smell? It’s disgusting.” He then plastered on a fake smile. “No offense, Mason. I just have a sensitive nose.” Irene frowned slightly. “Honey, you must have had a rough few days. I just got back from my trip. Here, this is for our son.” She pulled a cheap-looking plastic soldier from a bag and handed it to me. In the past, I would have thrown her thoughtless gifts back in her face. But not today. Today, I just didn’t care anymore. Noticing Evan behind her, Irene explained, “I ran into Evan on the way. He said he wanted to see the baby, so we came together.” When I said nothing, she assumed I was being my usual, jealous self. The next second, I smiled. “It’s fine. Come on in.” A flicker of confusion crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “See, honey? Being a father has changed you. You’re so much gentler now.” Before, whenever she brought Evan home, I would get angry. We would fight, always about him. But now, I saw everything with a painful clarity. It didn’t matter anymore. Evan strode inside in his polished leather shoes. Irene rushed to the bedroom to see our son. I was alone in the living room with him. A mocking smile played on his lips. “Look at you, Mason. A middle-aged man looks younger than you do right now. How are you going to keep Irene interested when you look like that?” I ignored him, sterilizing a bottle. My cold shoulder seemed to annoy him. His words turned sharper. “You know she doesn’t love you. Why do you insist on staying here, clinging to her family? It’s pathetic.” The absurdity of it was almost funny. “I’m her legal husband,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “What does that make you? The other man?” He was speechless for a moment, his face twisting in a snarl. “Don’t think that just because she had a baby with you, she’s settled down. Irene and I can have children too. Your son means nothing.” I continued to calmly scoop formula into the bottle. His inability to get a rise out of me was clearly frustrating him. As I reached for the kettle to pour hot water, he snatched it from me and deliberately poured the boiling water over his own hand.
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