"Da... Da..."
Little Trista wasn't ready to give up. Seeing Charles ignore her, she twisted in Janice's arms, calling out again, her soft baby voice clumsy but persistent.
"Charles, Trista's calling you," Janice said gently, confusion flickering across her face.
Why was he acting like this? Why the dark cloud on his face?
Was it… that he didn't like Trista?
Her smile faltered.
She'd heard bits and pieces before—how cold he'd been toward their daughter in the past year. Back then, she had believed it was because of her own absence. But now that she was here, beside him, why wouldn't he look at Trista? Not even once?
"You… don't want to see her, do you?"
Janice stood there, holding Trista tightly in her arms, not letting the girl go even as she squirmed and fussed. Her big, wet eyes locked on Charles, brimming with disbelief and growing sorrow.
Trista was their baby—so sweet, so lively. How could he not love her?
Charles remained silent.