Chương 4
At the appointment, the nurse asked about my support system.
The question was routine.
Almost automatic.
But it landed differently now.
“Do you have someone who can be with you after delivery?”
I looked at Rachel.
Then I looked away.
“I have my sister.”
The nurse smiled and wrote something down.
“Good.”
She did not ask about Jake.
I was grateful.
After the appointment, we stopped at a small cafe near the clinic.
It was one of those places with mismatched chairs and handwritten signs on the wall.
Jake hated places like that.
He always said they were trying too hard to look casual.
I used to laugh.
Now I wondered how many small parts of myself I had adjusted just because something was easier for him.
Rachel stirred sugar into her coffee.
“You’re thinking loudly.”
I looked up.
“I am?”
“Yes.”
She pointed at my face.
“You get this expression.”
“What expression?”
“Like you’re rearranging your entire life in your head.”
I looked down at my cup.
“Maybe I am.”
She did not tell me to leave him.
She did not tell me to forgive him.
That was why I trusted her.
Instead, she said, “What happens if he comes home tomorrow and says all the right things?”
The question bothered me because I had already asked myself the same thing.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked at her.
She leaned back.
“You know what you would want to believe.”
That hurt because it was true.
“I’m scared I’ll believe him.”
Rachel nodded slowly.
“Then don’t make decisions based on the person you hope he becomes.”
I stared at the coffee between us.
“Who do I make them based on?”
“The person he keeps showing you.”
That sentence followed me home.
Not because it solved anything.
Because it didn’t.
There were no easy answers.
No sudden moment where everything became clear.
There was just the uncomfortable reality of seeing someone without the excuses I had built around them.
When we arrived back at my house, there was a car parked in front.
Jake’s car.
My stomach tightened.
Rachel glanced at me.
“You want me to stay?”
I looked at the front door.
Part of me did.
Another part knew I needed to have this conversation without hiding behind someone else.
“I’ll call you if I need you.”
She nodded.
Before leaving, she hugged me carefully.
“Don’t let him make you feel guilty for needing what you need.”
I watched her drive away.
Then I stood there for a moment before walking inside.
Jake was sitting at the kitchen table.
He looked different.
Not dramatically.
Just tired.
The kind of tired that comes after someone has spent a long time thinking about what to say.
“I got your message,” he said.
I closed the door behind me.
“Okay.”
He looked at me.
“You really mean that?”
“Mean what?”
“That she deserves a father who shows up.”
I put my purse down.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m her father.”
“Then act like it.”
The words came out sharper than I expected.
Jake looked away.
“I know I messed up.”
That surprised me.
Because I had expected defensiveness.
Excuses.
Something about his stress.
Something about Brenda.
Instead, he sat there quietly.
“I should not have left.”
“No.”
“I thought I was overwhelmed.”
“You were.”
He looked up.
I continued.
“But you made your overwhelm my problem.”
His face changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Maybe.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
I almost answered immediately.
Then I stopped.
Because there it was.
The sentence that had defined him for years.
Not knowing what to do.
I walked to the counter and poured myself water.
“Jake, nobody knows what to do the first time.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
He stayed silent.
I could see him fighting the urge to defend himself.
That was new.
“I grew up watching my dad shut down whenever things got hard,” he finally said.
I turned around.
Jake rarely talked about his childhood.
Not because it was secret.
Because he avoided anything uncomfortable.
“My mom always stepped in,” he continued.
“She handled everything.”
I leaned against the counter.
“And you thought that was normal.”
He nodded.
“I guess.”
The honesty caught me off guard.
For a moment, I saw the scared person underneath the avoidance.
But seeing someone's wound did not erase the damage they caused.
“My mother always told me I was sensitive,” he said.
“She said I felt things more than other people.”
I looked at him.
“And what do you think now?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I think maybe she taught me that discomfort meant something was wrong.”
The room went quiet.
Outside, someone started a lawn mower.
The sound moved slowly down the street.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Jake said, “I’m sorry.”
Simple.
No explanation after it.
No excuse attached.
Just two words.
I wanted them to fix everything.
I wanted to run to him.
I wanted to believe this was the turning point.
But trust did not return because someone finally said the right thing.
It returned through what happened next.
And I had learned that promises were the easiest part.
“I need more than an apology,” I said.
He nodded.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the floor.
“I don’t know how to prove it yet.”
That answer was more honest than anything else he had said.
I walked toward the nursery.
After a moment, he followed.
He stopped at the doorway.
“I haven’t seen everything you’ve done in here.”
I looked around the room.
The crib.
The folded blankets.
The tiny clothes.
“All the things you said we would do together.”
His face fell.
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t.”
He swallowed.
“I should have been here.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
This one heavier.
Then he asked quietly, “Can I help finish the hospital bag?”
I looked at him.
May you like
It was such a small question.
Almost nothing.
