The first suitcase held tiny baby clothes, washed and folded by size. Beside them sat a zipped hospital bag with a label in my husband’s handwriting, and inside I could see my slippers, my favorite pillow, and the playlist I had once mentioned wanting for labor. My hand flew to my mouth.

Daniel sat back on his heels, his eyes red and swollen. “I stayed up all night, Tessa,” he said hoarsely. “I carried that watermelon for one day and could barely breathe. You have carried our daughter for months.” Then he lifted the lid of the second suitcase, and I saw a thick envelope resting on a small wooden box. “Open the envelope first,” he whispered. “It explains what I did last night.”