They were soft leather, no bigger than my thumb, with little laces I would have to learn how to tie.

I had spent months preparing that room.

I had painted the walls a warm cream, chosen a crib that matched the dresser, and spent two weekends sorting through boxes of onesies while Beckett was at work.

That’s why I hired Ysolde.

She worked at the paint store on the corner of Ellis, and she had a steady hand and a quiet way about her that I liked.

She came on Tuesdays and Thursdays for six weeks, painting little clouds and stars and a crescent moon above the crib.

She was careful and kind, and she always asked how I was feeling.

I trusted her in my home.

I trusted my husband in my home.

That was my mistake.

When I pulled into the driveway that Thursday, I noticed Beckett’s car was already there, which was strange because he usually worked until six.

I didn’t think much of it.

I carried the shoes in their little box up the stairs, and I heard voices coming from behind the nursery door.

I thought maybe Ysolde had brought a helper, or maybe Beckett was asking her about the trim.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

My husband, Beckett, with his hands on Ysolde’s waist, kissing her right beside the crib we had picked out together.

The crib where our daughter was supposed to sleep.

I don’t remember dropping the box.

I remember the sound it made when it hit the hardwood floor, and I remember the way they both turned around.

Ysolde’s face went pale.

Beckett took a step back and said my name like it was a question.

I couldn’t speak at first.

Then I looked down at the floor and saw the ribbon I had bought weeks earlier, a pink satin ribbon with the word ‘DADDY’ printed on it in white letters.

I had planned to tie it around the crib as a surprise for when he got home.

I picked it up and threw it at his feet.

‘What is this?’ I said.

‘Talk to me.’

Beckett looked at Ysolde, then back at me.

He didn’t say sorry.

He said, ‘Ariella, it’s not what it looks like.’

I laughed.

It came out ugly and bitter, and I didn’t care.

‘It looks like you kissing another woman in our baby’s room,’ I said.

‘So what is it, Beckett?’

Ysolde stepped away from him, and that’s when she really looked at me.

Her eyes went down to my belly, and her mouth fell open.

‘You’re pregnant?’ she said.

I put my hand on my stomach.

‘Eight months,’ I said.

‘Eight months?’ she repeated.

Her voice cracked.

Then she turned to Beckett, and her face changed from shock to something harder.

‘You told me you couldn’t have children,’ she said.

‘You told me you were divorced.’

I felt the floor move under me.

Beckett didn’t answer her.

He just stood there with his hands at his sides and his jaw tight, like a man waiting for a storm to pass.

Ysolde backed away from him.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said to me.

‘I swear I didn’t know.’

I didn’t answer her.

I was looking past her, at something small and silver on the floor behind the crib.

It hadn’t been there that morning.

I didn’t want to look at it.

But I couldn’t stop seeing it.