Page 63 of Better as It

He huffs a tired laugh.

After a moment, he says, “I want to be here when the baby takes his first steps.”

“You will.”

“I want to take them on him first ride.”

“You will.”

“I want to teach them how to be good. And brave. And whole.”

My voice breaks. “You will!”

But inside, I wonder. I spend more time in the kitchen now. Cooking keeps my hands busy. My mind focused. My heart from sinking.

I print out recipes and write little notes on them in ink. Things like:He liked this one—made a face but cleaned the bowl.Ortoo spicy, scale back pepper next time.

I don’t know why I do it.

Maybe because I’m terrified there might be a time when I have to remember everything.

And I can’t risk forgetting even the smallest thing.

One night, after a rough treatment leaves him too weak to get out of bed, I find a soft lullaby on my phone and curl beside him with my head on his chest.

“Tell me a story,” I whisper.

“What kind?”

“Any kind. One where you live.”

He pulls me closer and tells me about a house by a lake, the sound of gravel under tires, our baby learning to ride a balance bike with training wheels.

He describes the wind. The peace. The laughter.

And I close my eyes and try to believe it’s real. We’re building a life out of broken pieces.

Patch by patch.

Day by day.

And some days are harder than others.

But every morning he wakes up beside me, I thank whatever’s out there listening.

Because he’s still here.

And so am I.

The next day starts with BW showing up uninvited and absolutely smug about it.

He’s standing on the porch, holding a bag of groceries in one arm and a bouquet of mismatched flowers in the other.

“Toon said you were craving peanut butter. I brought peanut butter. And bagels. And some random yogurt Karsci swears is ‘good for pregnancy bowels.’” He makes a face. “Whatever that means.”

I can’t help but laugh.

BW may look like trouble and talk like sarcasm wrapped in denim, but the man’s got a soft spot a mile wide.

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