Chapter 2 - The Man Who Prepared for EverythingEmmett and I had been married for three years. He was the most organized person I had ever met. He labeled jars in the kitchen. He color-coded tax documents. When we learned I was pregnant, he assembled the crib months before my due date, then spent half a Saturday adjusting it because one of the slats looked slightly uneven.
"You know cribs aren't measured based on feelings, right?" I teased him.
"They should be," he replied without even looking up.
That was Emmett. He researched car seats like his life depended on it. He packed my hospital bag before I even entered the third trimester. Then repacked it twice. One evening, he held up a pair of socks like he'd discovered some vital secret. "Nobody tells you how important the socks are."
I laughed. But secretly, I loved how prepared he was. I loved his steadiness. I had grown up in a house where uncertainty could ruin an entire day. My mother, Renata, used to freeze every time she heard a car pull into the driveway, because she never knew whether my father was coming home angry — or coming home at all.
Emmett was the opposite. He planned. He prepared. He stayed.
At least, that was what I believed.
When my water broke late Tuesday night, he had been perfect. For fourteen hours, he barely left my side. Fed me ice chips. Counted through contractions. When I cried and told him I couldn't do it anymore, he squeezed my hand. "You can. You already are."
I believed him. Because Emmett had never been the kind of man who made promises casually.
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Then our son arrived. The nurses checked him, weighed him, wrapped him in a hospital blanket, and placed him on my chest. Everything felt right. For a few beautiful minutes, it was just the three of us.
And then Emmett whispered that strange request and disappeared.
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