The impossible schedules.
The student loans.
The ramen dinners.
The nights we danced in the kitchen half delirious from exhaustion.
We had loved each other desperately once.
Maybe we still did.
And maybe that was the problem.
“I hated her interference,” I admitted quietly. “But every time I tried to talk to you, you defended her.”
“I know.”
“You chose peace over me.”
His face crumpled.
“You’re right.”
Tears burned my eyes unexpectedly.
Because I had spent years imagining this conversation.
Years rehearsing angry speeches.
But now?
Now all I felt was grief.
For the marriage we could have had.
For the years we lost.
For the son who should have known his father from the beginning.
Ethan approached the bed slowly.
“Can I hold him?”
The question nearly broke me.
Careful.
Tentative.
Like he thought I might say no.
Maybe he deserved that fear.
But Lucas deserved better than bitterness.
So I nodded.
Ethan sat carefully beside me while I transferred the baby into his arms.
The second Lucas settled against his chest, Ethan stopped breathing.
His entire face transformed.
Wonder.
Awe.
Devastating love.
Lucas opened one tiny eye.
Then wrapped his miniature hand around Ethan’s finger.
And Ethan cried.
Not quietly.
Not politely.
He completely fell apart.
