Page 85 of Letting Go

Caden was on the sofa, half a glass of scotch in his hand, the bottle sweating on the table. And the look on his face, it gutted me. I asked what was wrong. He said he’d gone to surprise me. Our usual lunch spot. He saw us.

Michael and me.

I explained. Every word. Calmly, then not-so-calmly. But it didn’t matter. My emotionally stable, anchor-of-a-husband looked at me like I’d betrayed him in a way I didn’t understand.

We played house for Rhett’s sake. Put on smiles, bedtime stories, the whole act. But when I climbed into bed, he didn’t move. Just kept his back to me.

This morning, once his mom picked up Rhett for the day, everything cracked.

We fought. Loud. Messy. No metaphors, just raw words and months of silent hurts spilling out. About how we’ve been trying for another baby. How it’s not happening. How Rhett came easy, and this one won’t. How it’s eating at us, at him. At me.

And underneath it all, the fear.

That we’re breaking. That we’re not leaning on each other as we should be. That maybe, just maybe, we aren’t as bulletproof as we once thought.

God, what have we become?

I rub my temples, then push back from the desk. If I stay here any longer, I’ll start doom-scrolling fertility forums again, and we all know where that leads.

I get in the car and drive home.Ourhome.

The lights are on when I pull in. That stupid gnome Rhett insisted we keep by the front steps is still leaning to the left. Caden’s car is in the driveway. My heart does something weird, something hopeful and terrified all at once.

When I walk in, the house smells like cinnamon. It reminds me of the cookies Rhett loves, messy and sugary and always stuck to my counters for days.

Caden’s on the couch again, feet up, drink in hand.

But this time, there’s no bottle. Just tea. Chamomile, if the scent is right. He’s holding Rhett’s favourite blanket in his lap and flipping through a photo album like some emotionally complex leading man in a sad movie.

“I was going to call,” I say softly, standing near the door like maybe he doesn’t want me any closer.

“I know,” he says, not looking up. “I figured I’d wait and see if you’d just walk through the door.”

“I almost didn’t,” I admit. “I was scared.”

He finally meets my eyes. “Of what?”

“Of not knowing how to fix it.”

There’s a beat. Two.

And then he sets the album aside and pats the space beside him. My legs move before my brain does, like they’ve been waiting for permission.

I sit.

“I was mad,” he says. “Not because it was Mike. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because… I feel like I’m losing you and I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a goddamn walking cliché.”

“You’re not,” I whisper. “I feel it too. The distance. The frustration. The waiting. My body not cooperating. Everything feels like a test.”

He turns toward me, his hand finding mine. Warm. Steady.

“I miss you,” he says. “Not just in bed. Not just when we’re being parents.You.The version of you that throws popcorn at the TV and tries to seduce me during tax season.”

That makes me laugh, actually laugh, the kind that comes from my chest. “You loved tax season.”

“I loved you in glasses and no pants.”

We’re grinning now, but there’s still something fragile in the air between us.

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