Chương 7
"I am not calling to fight with you," I said.
"I know."
"I'm not calling to forgive you either."
"I know."
"Then why are you agreeing to talk?"
She was quiet.
Then she said, "Because I have been sitting with this too."
I listened.
"Kendra?"
"My whole pregnancy has been filled with questions."
Her voice shook slightly.
"I thought I was building a future with someone who had chosen me."
She stopped.
"Then I found out he had not actually told you."
I frowned.
"What?"
"He told me he was going to talk to you after the babies were born."
The words made my stomach drop.
"When did you find out that wasn't true?"
"The day I sent the message."
I sat completely still.
"You sent the message because you thought he was delaying?"
"Yes."
"Not because you wanted to expose him?"
"No."
She sounded offended by the idea.
"I wanted him to stop avoiding it."
I looked at the phone.
For the first time, I heard something in her voice that was not competition.
Pain.
"You knew about me," I said.
"Yes."
"And you still loved him."
"Yes."
I swallowed.
That answer was honest.
Ugly.
But honest.
"I don't know what to do with that."
"You don't have to do anything with it."
I looked toward the window.
The morning light was coming through the blinds.
Everything looked normal.
That almost made me angry.
"Did he ever talk about me?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
She hesitated.
That hesitation told me more than any answer.
"Tell me."
"He said you were a good person."
The words hurt.
Because they sounded like a compliment.
But they were not.
People often called someone good when they were explaining why they had hurt them.
"What else?"
"He said you were a great mother."
My throat tightened.
"Before I was even a mother."
"Yes."
I looked down at my hands.
The hands that had held my sons through sleepless nights.
The hands that had washed bottles while Nolan was somewhere else.
"What did he say about why he wanted to leave?"
Kendra became quiet.
"He said he felt like he was disappearing."
I stared at the wall.
That sentence sounded exactly like something Nolan would say.
Not because it was true.
Because it was the kind of sentence he used when he was trying to describe pain without admitting responsibility.
"Did he ever say he wanted to stay?"
"Yes."
The answer surprised me.
"When?"
"After the twins were born."
I felt something twist inside me.
"After they were born?"
"He said seeing them changed everything."
I closed my eyes.
Of course it did.
The babies had changed everything.
But they had not changed what happened before.
"Did he tell you that?"
"Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I asked him if he was leaving you."
"And?"
"He said he didn't know."
I let out a slow breath.
There it was again.
The same answer.
The same inability to choose.
"What happens now?" Kendra asked.
I almost didn't respond.
Because I didn't know.
"I don't know."
The words surprised me.
But they were true.
For the first time in days, I was not saying them because I was lost.
I was saying them because the situation was genuinely impossible.
There was no clean ending.
No version where everyone walked away untouched.
Kendra cleared her throat.
"I want you to know something."
I waited.
"I never hated you."
I looked down.
"I don't know if that makes anything better."
"It doesn't."
Her honesty caught me off guard.
"But I thought you should know."
I sat there quietly.
Two women.
One man.
Three babies who had done nothing wrong.
A situation created entirely by choices made before they ever arrived.
"I need to ask you one thing," I said.
"Okay."
"Are you going to keep the baby?"
"Yes."
The answer was immediate.
No hesitation.
"Does Nolan know?"
"Yes."
"Is he involved?"
Another pause.
"Not the way he should be."
I looked away.
That sounded like Nolan.
"He sends messages."
"What kind?"
"Mostly asking how I am."
"Does he ask about the baby?"
"Sometimes."
Sometimes.
The word stayed with me.
A father should not have a sometimes relationship with his child.
"I am sorry," Kendra said.
The apology caught me completely off guard.
I did not know what to do with it.
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because you are hurting."
I stared at the phone.
"You are too."
She didn't answer.
Maybe because she knew.
Maybe because admitting it would make everything harder.
After we hung up, I stayed at the table for a long time.
I expected anger.
Instead, I felt exhausted.
The story I had created in my head had changed.
Kendra was not the villain I wanted her to be.
Nolan was not the monster I wanted him to be.
And somehow, that made everything harder.
That evening, Everett came by.
He brought groceries.
Not flowers.
Not a dramatic apology.
Groceries.
He placed them on the counter and said, "You need to eat."
I almost smiled.
"Is that your way of comforting people?"
"No."
He opened the refrigerator.
"My way of comforting people is making sure they are alive long enough to solve their problems."
The sentence was so Everett that I actually laughed.
A small laugh.
The first one in days.
He looked surprised.
Then he nodded.
"Good."
"What?"
"You laughed."
I looked down.
"I didn't think I could."
Everett leaned against the counter.
"My son has made many mistakes."
I waited.
"But this one is his."
The way he said it mattered.
No excuses.
No protecting Nolan.
Just accountability.
"I don't know if I can forgive him."
Everett nodded.
"You may not."
The answer surprised me.
Most people rushed toward forgiveness.
They treated it like the final destination.
Everett didn't.
"Forgiveness is not the same thing as forgetting," he said.
"I know."
"And it is not the same thing as allowing someone to hurt you again."
May you like
I looked at him.
For the first time, I understood why Nolan had spent so many years trying to impress this man.
