Page 37 of Shattered Promise

It takes lessthan five minutes for Theo to drift off, his breath growing softer, his little fists unclenching against the fabric of my sweatshirt. I sway slowly, perched in front of the table, both hands cradling the baby’s weight like a precious, breakable thing. Each inhale makes his whole body rise and fall—so light, so trusting, so absolutely certain that someone will catch him if he falls.

I cannot remember the last time I felt that kind of certainty. Maybe never.

In the barn, a car coughs to life—just a quick machine snarl, then silence. I listen to the birds, the gentle peal of a nearby wind chime, the hum of wind in the tall grass. It’s as close to peace as I get these days, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the old clutch of anxiety to squeeze my ribs. But there’s nothing. Just the soft, even weight of the baby and the faint tang of lemonade lingering on my tongue.

I press my lips to Theo’s head and close my eyes. He smells like sun-warmed cotton and the faintest trace of something sweet. I could stand here for hours, frozen in the amber of thismoment—safe, necessary,wanted. I know it’s not mine, but I keep it anyway. For just this moment.

After a while, I ease Theo into the crook of my arm and lean against the porch railing. My thumb traces lazy circles over his back. His lips twitch in a micro-smile, then his breath slows, mouth falling open.

It’s almost too easy. Like a trick of the light, muscle-memory borrowed from a different life.

But the longer I stand here, the more I notice the tension in my spine. My arms are starting to ache a little. And this child is so sound asleep, it feels criminal to keep him upright like this. Plus, I keep imagining that Mason’s going to come back and see me snuggling his kid and I don’t know, ask me to leave or something.

I glance toward the pole barn. Still no sign of Mason. For a second, I consider just leaving—taking Theo inside, laying him in his crib, and disappearing back to the cabin before either of them notice I left. Maybe that’s what Ishoulddo.

Instead, I breathe. I memorize the feel of this—his weight, the hush of the morning, the strange, honeyed ache in my chest that isn’t quite pain but not quite longing either, something in the muddy middle.

Carefully, I rise and ease the screen door open with my elbow. Inside, it smells like lemon and sunshine. It’s cooler too, the walls holding off the heat of the day. I softly pad through the kitchen, past the living room with its neat stacks of storybooks and the patchy drywall by the window, and into the hallway. The nursery is the third door on the left. I stand for a second on the threshold, eyes adjusting, and then step in.

It’s soft and simple, sweet in a way that guts me. No wild colors or overdone decorations. Just a pale blue rug, a wooden crib, and a plush gray glider in the corner that looks like it’s seen a hundred midnight wake-ups. There are a few toys on the lowshelves, and a row of baby books near the glider. Everything neat but lived in.

I lower Theo into the crib with slow, practiced hands. He fusses once, reaches up with that same little grasping motion, and then sinks back into sleep. I rest my palm on his stomach for a moment, a soft reassurance. Then I pull the blinds and sink into the chair, letting my eyes drift over the room again.

There’s a framed black-and-white photo on the wall of Mason and Theo. Mason’s looking at Theo with all the devotion and love of a proud father. And even in a still image, it’s a punch to the chest.

I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. Try not to imagine what it’s like to build a life this way, to know exactly what matters and who you want to matter to you and then to just . . .doit.

I think about my own apartment in Seattle, how it smells like expensive floral room spray and ambition. It has a perfect view of the city and a curated minimalism aesthetic. But that’s mostly because I don’t spend that much time there.

It’s not soft, and it’s not comfortable, and I almost never wake up feeling rested.

I don’t have what Mason has. I don’t even know if I want it. But there’s a throb of envy that creeps in anyway.

I push up from the glider a few minutes later, cross the room, and ease the door until it’s almost closed. Open enough that I’ll be able to hear Theo if he makes a noise. I return to the porch and stare out at the yard. For once, I let myself just stand there, not rushing to fill the silence with noise or movement. I sip the iced tea lemonade, letting the tartness anchor me.

Mason’s still in the barn. I wonder if he’s giving me space, or if he really is busy. Maybe both. I think about texting him to let him know Theo’s asleep, but I don’t. Instead, I sit on the topstep, arms braced behind me, face tipped to the sun, and listen to the meadow hum.

I drift for a while, eyes closed, letting the world blur down to birds and bugs and the distant metallic clang of Mason finishing whatever chore he may or may not have invented to stay gone. I wonder if this is what peace is supposed to feel like. Not a burst of joy, not an absence of pain, but a steady, humming neutrality. A brief permission to stop worrying.

I open my eyes when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I’ve got a dozen texts waiting for me from the book club group chat my sister named Book Babes.

Cora: Okay who else is finished because I have OPINIONS

Margot: Please define “finished”

Eloise: Oh god, not the ogre

Margot: Did I finish chapter 33 or did chapter 33 finish me?

Francesca: I’m halfway! Planning to binge the rest tonight unless Graham distracts me

Eloise: Jesus, Margot

Cora: I’m going to pretend I don’t know what distracts means

Margot: You’re telling me you read chapter 33 and didn’t get an assist from Beau?

Eloise: Oh. My. God. MARGOT!

---