Page 7 of The Breaking Point

He runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did. You missed it, Aiden. You missed the birth of your first son.” I look at him hard, make sure he can’t look away. “And then you missed every milestone after that. His first words, first steps, first fever, first nightmare. You know who was there? Me. Always me. Because I didn’t have the luxury of leaving for college or strip clubs apparently.”

He’s quiet, jaw clenched. I know he wants to say something, defend himself, rationalize, reach for another maybe, it-wasn’t-so-bad thought. But he doesn’t.

“I forgave you for so much already,” I whisper. “I forgave you for not showing up when I needed you most. I forgave you for being part-time in a full-time life. But I don’t think I forgive this. You don’t just get to say sorry and pretend that the pain it caused didn’t settle into my bones.”

Aiden shifts, arms crossed like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t miss Jack’s first steps,” he says, weakly. “You told me he hadn’t walked yet.”

I laugh, not because it’s funny but because the absurdity of that denial is almost poetic. “He walked three days before you came home,” I say evenly. “In the hallway. Wearing his ridiculous dinosaur onesie with the long sleeves. I caught him, and I couldn’t even celebrate it, because it meant he was growing up and his father wasn’t there to see it.”

Aiden’s lips part, but I press on.

“I lied, Aiden. I told you it hadn’t happened yet because I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I did that a lot, you know. Lied. Smiled through birthdays you missed. Nodded along when you said college was crazy again. Protected your feelings like they were more fragile than mine.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold under the robe.

“‘No, honey, Jack just took his first steps today. You’re right on time.’ ‘No, it doesn’t bother me that you can’t make it back for my birthday, we’ll celebrate later.’ ‘No, it’s not a big deal that I planned the whole wedding alone, I wanted to anyway.’”

He moves toward me again, but I raise a hand to stop him.

“I even convinced myself it didn’t matter that you only proposed because I was pregnant again. Told myself love didn’t have to look like the movies, that obligation could change into something real.” I shake my head, blinking fast. “But this? What you did with her? I can’t lie about that. I won’t. You’re not forgiven. Not for this.”

“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Please, Kate. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just… just tell me how to fix this.”

He’s crying now, real tears, not the quiet ones either. They stream down his face. Maybe this is the first time he’s allowedhimself to look at the wreckage instead of pretending everything will be okay.

I don’t move.

“Can you go back in time?” I ask. My voice doesn’t tremble like his. It’s quiet. Controlled, but barely. “Can you undo that night? Can you be the man I needed then, instead of the one who made it all harder?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Can you walk into that delivery room with flowers instead of excuses? Can you stay up with me when the baby won’t sleep instead of turning off your phone so you can sleep through it? Can you go back and not follow that woman?”

His mouth opens, but no words come. Just more tears. He nods like a child being scolded, not really understanding the lesson but wanting the comfort back.

“I wanted to believe you were different. That even if we started off young and messy, we could grow into something beautiful. Something safe. But now I look at you, and I don’t know what we are.”

“I’m your husband,” he says. “I love you.”

“You say that,” I whisper. “You said it while you were partying your nights away. While I was home with our baby. While I was eating plain crackers and pumping milk at 2 a.m. and feeling disgusting and exhausted and lonely. You said you loved me.”

“I did. I do.”

“Then why wasn’t I enough?”

He walks to the edge of the bed, kneels down so we’re eye level. His eyes are red, face blotchy. “You were. Youare. That’s what kills me. It wasn’t aboutyou. It was never abouther. It was about me being terrified. I didn’t think I deserved any of it, you, Jack, the life we were building. I panicked. I spiralled. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“You got to regret it in silence,” I say. “You got to lock it away while I looked at you like you were everything. Do you know how humiliating this is?”

He reaches for my hand, but I pull it back.

“I used to look at you like I worshipped you,” I whisper. “Like the sun rose just to give you light to walk in. You’d show up with takeout after working late and I’d act like it was a grand romantic gesture. I thought your minimum effort meant you were trying. I thought a sleepy ‘how was your day’ counted as love. I filled in all the blanks for you. And now I wonder if you even noticed.”

His mouth opens, maybe to deny it, maybe to apologize again, but I keep going.

“I don’t know what happens next,” I say, slower this time, each word pressing against the silence like a bruise. “But it’s not forgiveness. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”

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