Page 12 of Promise Me This

Siobhan waves a hand through the air dismissively. “Son, I see so many people a day, it all blurs together after a while.”

Something in her tone tells me she’s full of shit, but I’m not one to insert myself into other people’s family drama, so I don’t mention it. Instead I gather the now-damp towel strategically in my arms and clear my throat. “While you two work this out, can I please put some different clothes on?”

Siobhan says, “Sure, love, I’ll go put on the kettle,” at the same time her son grumbles a strained, “Yes, please.”

I nearly fly up the steps to my room, faintly hearing Callum bite out, “Keep being so forgetful and I’ll put you in a home,” as I close my door.

Dressed in an oversize sweater and a pair of baggy jeans—the most conservative outfit I could find after my unintended peep show—I brace myself as I head downstairs to rejoin Callum and Siobhan. I seriously considered staying in my room until I could be certain he’d left, but that’s what a coward would do. And a coward is exactly what I’m trying to stop being, even if yesterday didn’t exactly constitute my best effort.

My steps falter when I cross the threshold of the kitchen. Callum and his mother are locked in a whispered argument, both leaning a hip against the counter in an identical pose. But at the table in the far corner, stuffing her face with a bite of scone—the source of the delicious aroma filling the room, if I had to guess—sits his daughter.

Her wild curls are barely being tamed by what looks like a sloppy French braid. Two thick strands spool around her face in an angelic frame. There’s a smudge of cream on one of her round cheeks, and a dimple embedded there when she smiles at me.

The ache that fills my heart is almost enough to bring me to my knees. She’s everything I’ve ever imagined our daughter would look like, down to the long fingers currently clutching her breakfast. The ones that match her father’s hands perfectly.

I blink to clear the mist from my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the barrage of memories. When the doctors first told me something wasn’t right with our baby, I couldn’t comprehend it. I had only just realized I was pregnant; how could anything be wrong with her? I was scared, of course, because what twenty-year-old mom isn’t. But I was also deeply in love with her already. She was as real to me as Niamh is here in this room.

Then that something had a name. Trisomy 18. A birth defect and a death sentence in one. They tried to prepare me for what was to come. There were mentions of miscarriage and stillbirth, of comfort measures if neither of those came to pass. The doctor stared at the floor as he rambled medical jargon in an attempt to manage my expectations for the baby I carried.

“We’ll know more when you’re further along, but most babies with Trisomy 18 develop fatal heart defects,” he told me. “If she survives to birth, she’ll likely be incredibly small, and may have several deformities.”

I couldn’t fathom it. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I pictured the little girl sitting at this table. Her father’s hair. Her father’s long, lean limbs. I wanted her to have every part of him that she could, because I couldn’t imagine a more lovely person to take after. No words of warning could steal that image from my mind.

There’s a heavy silence filling the room, drawing me in like a black hole to fill its emptiness. Niamh has gone back to sucking jam off her fingers, completely unbothered by the palpable tension. Callum and his mother, however, are staring at me.

I wrap my arms around my middle, holding on to what is already gone, as if there is still a chance she can be saved.

“Niamh, can you go play in the living room for a bit,” Callum says. His mouth cradles the words gently, no hint of his obvious anger leaking through.

She scans the room with observant eyes, finally landing on my face before giving a soft nod and getting down from the table. When she passes me on her way to the door, she stage-whispers, “If you make yourself a turtle, he can’t be angry anymore.”

My brow furrows, fear temporarily pushed aside. “If I do what?”

“You know,” she says, and then she shrugs into the neckhole of her olive-green sweater until only her face is showing and she grins, that dimple popping once more. “A turtle.”

A gruff combination of what seems to be a snort and a groan escapes Callum’s tight-lipped frown, while Siobhan takes a sip from her mug to hide her smile.

I swallow past the lump of nerves in my throat and offer a watery smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She nods, satisfied, and skips from the room with her sweater still framing her face. I shut the door softly behind her and turn to my audience of two, bracing myself against the solid wood for strength.

“Callum—” Siobhan begins as a warning.

“You need to leave,” he says, cutting her off.

Siobhan smacks him on the back of one arm. “That is no way to speak to my guest!”

He winces but trudges on with eyes that nearly scorch me with their fire. “She’s no guest. She’s a ghost from the past who had no business turning up.” He takes two steps toward me and then stops, as though approaching a wild animal whose actions are unpredictable. “Whatever you want, since you can’t seem to tell me, I have no use for. The time for explanations is long gone.”

I drag my voice out of the depths of my fear. “Callum, I didn’t come here to hurt you. I just—” My words hang in the air between us. Didn’t I though? my thoughts whisper. Everything I have to tell him could only bring him pain. There’s no way to heal the wounds I left behind without adding new ones in their place.

I reach for my necklace, gripping it tightly for strength. His gaze tracks the movement, and for a moment the veil of anger falls away from his face, leaving him exposed. It’s that glimpse of concern, the ripple of longing that reassures me I still know this man. I have not ruined him.

Not yet.

“Go home, Leo,” he whispers as the shield falls back into place. “There’s nothing for you here. Not anymore.”

Tears well in my eyes, burning me with their need to fall. I glance at the ceiling, praying they’ll stay put long enough for me to leave this room.

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