He let out a shaky laugh. “No more.”
We are still rebuilding. Some mornings I wake up angry all over again. Some nights he apologizes with his face before he says a word. But now we talk.
This baby is not a reward for suffering.
Not in half-stories anymore. Not in softened truths meant to spare each other.
This baby is not a reward for suffering. The pregnancy did not erase what happened between us. It exposed it.
And maybe that is what saved us.
Someday, when this child is old enough to ask how we got here, I will not tell the story like a miracle dropped from a clear sky.
I will tell the truth.
That grief can make people quiet.
Last night, Bruce adjusted the blanket in the crib and looked at me.
That fear can make people selfish.
That love without honesty is still love, but it is wounded.
