Page 78 of October
Beth didn't say anything for a moment, just sat across from me at the small kitchen table, her boots kicked off, one leg pulled up, then she looked at me fully. No jokes, no sarcasm. Just that sharp, steady gaze she saved for when she actually gave a damn.
"How are you?" she asked. "Like really. No polite lies. No 'I'm hanging in there.' Truth."
I stared down at my plate, pushing the food around with my fork, the words rising before I could swallow them back down. "Lost," I admitted, my voice sounding foreign even to myself. "It's like... like I've been born again but nobody taught me how to stand. I don't know where to put my feet. Don't know how to balance. I'm relearning everything I should've already known by now—how to be a man, how to be a father, how to be someone worthy of the people who loved me before I knew how to love them back properly."
I paused, my chest tightening, throat dry. "It's like I'm rebuilding from the floor up, brick by brick, and every brick I lay is one mistake too late. I keep thinking if I'd just done it sooner, if I'd paid attention sooner, none of this would've fallen apart. I built a life with October and the kids like someone throwing together furniture without reading the instructions. I thought love would hold it all up by itself, but love without effort is just... paper. I'm standing here with an armful of shredded paper and no idea how to put it back together."
I shook my head, swallowing the burn in my throat. " it's exhausting. Every step feels like a reminder of what I should've done years ago. I don't even know if it's too late now, or if I'm just walking in circles, building a house she doesn't even want to come home to."
Beth nodded like she'd been expecting that. "Good," she said simply, leaning back like my emotional honesty was mildly satisfying. "Accountability looks good on you."
I laughed softly, the kind of laugh that doesn't reach your eyes, just breaks apart in your throat. "I don't even expect her to forgive me anymore. I don't wake up hoping for that. I wake up... bracing. Every morning I open my eyes and there's this second,this one second, where everything's quiet, like maybe I dreamed it all. Then it hits me again. The weight. The mess I made. I just—I wait for it. I'm convinced one of these days I'll open the door and find a courier standing there, holding an envelope with my whole life folded inside. Divorce papers. The end of it all."
Beth gave me a sharp look, crossing her arms. "Yeah? Would that feel as bad as the envelopeyouleft her?"
The words landed like a slap—sharp, hot, humiliating. I winced. "She told you about that?"
Beth's eyes widened, incredulous. "Of course she told me. What did you think, she'd just keep that kind of emotional grenade to herself? Jesus, Thomas."
She leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, like she was trying to get physically closer just to get her frustration across more efficiently. "Who the hell leavesmoneyfor their wife on her birthday like she's a client? Or a pity case?Happy birthday, sorry I forgot your existence—here's a stack of bills to make up for my emotional bankruptcy?What were you thinking?"
I scrubbed a hand down my face, my palm dragging against the heat radiating off my neck and jaw. My chest was already tight, but now it felt like shame was sinking down my spine.
"It wasn't supposed to be like that," I muttered, barely able to meet her eyes. "I missed her birthday. I knew I missed it. The gift I ordered wasn't going to arrive on time. I panicked. Dad suggested the envelope, he said it's practical, that she might appreciate the gesture."
Beth's face darkened at the mention of Dad, but I kept going.
"I wasn't trying to be cold. I just... I didn't know what to do. I felt like I had to give her something.Anything.I didn't want her to feel forgotten. But I guess I made it worse."
Beth exhaled slowly, then stood, pacing the room with the kind of energy she only used when she was trying not to throw something. Her voice dropped lower, not less angry, just more dangerous.
"You think money says what your mouth won't? You missed her birthday, Thomas and let's not even go to why that is, but that envelope proved what she feared. That you don't see her anymore. That she's just one more thing you outsource. One more thing on the to-do list you never get to."
Her voice caught slightly. "She needed to know she still mattered to you. And all you gave her was proof she didn't."
"Of course she mattered. She's always been the only thing that truly did", voice raw, breaking apart. "I know how it looks. I didn't mean it like that, Beth, I swear. I didn't know how to show up. Instead of fixing it, I made it worse. Everything I did made it worse."
"We come from a spectacularly fucked-up family," Beth said dryly, "No one taught us what love was. They taught us guilt. Silent treatments. Passive-aggressive sighs. Slamming cabinet doors. Acting like everything's fine while emotionally setting the kitchen on fire. Love? Nah. We skipped that class entirely."
She leaned back, "But I left. I travelled. I fell apart in hostels, learned how to apologize from strangers, cried in public restrooms I still remember the tiles of. I sat on the floors of kitchens I didn't belong in with people who told meyou deserve betterand for once, I listened."
I didn't interrupt. I could tell she was just getting started.
"I read a thousand ridiculous self-help books with pastel covers and affirmations that made me cringe. I saidI am enoughinto a mirror while half-laughing, half-crying. I accidentally dated a yoga teacher who only communicated in breath work and obscure metaphors about rivers." She paused. "That was... an experience."
Despite myself, I huffed a laugh, just a little.
She softened then, but didn't let me off the hook. "But the point is, I did the work. I learned what love should feel like, and more importantly, what it shouldn't. You didn't. You stayed here, doing... whatever it is you do. Avoiding. Justifying. Pretending the absence of conflict is the same thing as peace."
I looked down, shame prickling up the back of my neck.
Beth nudged my knee with hers. "I'm not saying this to judge you, T, I'm saying—you're more than your mistakes. But onlyifyou're willing to learn. Only if you stop expecting people—especially her—to translate your silence into love."
Then she smiled, soft but wicked. "So here I am, dumping all my hard-earned emotional wisdom on your head like it's clearance sale day at the feelings store. You're welcome."
She nudged my knee gently. "Listen to me, you aresomuch more than your mistakes. You're not just the bad decisions or the screwups. You're also the good things you forgot how to see. And if I have to stand here like some discount guru and remind you every five minutes—I will."
She grinned. "I'm annoyingandemotionally evolved. It's my whole personality now."
