Page 73 of The Space He Left
"Every day," I said. "I choose to be him every day. I love you," I murmured as I kissed the top of Harper’s head.
"I know. And that's why we're here, why this works, because you understand that love is a choice you make over and over and over."
"Pancakes!" Emma announced, bouncing into the kitchen with her wings slightly askew. "Are we having birthday pancakes?"
"Butterfly pancakes," Harper corrected, sliding a plate onto Emma's placemat. "Made special by Mama and Daddy."
As we sat down for Emma's birthday breakfast, I looked around our kitchen table and felt that familiar swell of gratitude. This life, this family, this ordinary weekday morning that happened to be our daughter's third birthday – I'd almost lost all of it.
But Harper's careful requirements, her refusal to make reconciliation easy, had forced me to become someone worthy of this happiness. Someone who understood that the most important heroic act was showing up consistently for the people you loved.
"Make a wish before you eat your pancakes," Harper told Emma.
"I wish for butterflies and swings and for Mama and Daddy to always be happy," Emma said solemnly, "and for our life to be sparkly."
"That's a very good wish," I said, my voice rough with emotion.
"The best wish," Harper agreed.
As Emma dug into her butterfly pancakes with her now three-year-old enthusiasm, I caught Harper's eye across the table. She smiled at me – not the careful, guarded smile of our rebuilding phase, but the radiant, trusting smile of a woman who was completely happy with her life.
I'd worked for that smile. Earned it through consistency, patience, and the daily choice to be the man my family needed.
It had been worth every difficult moment, every test, every night spent in the guest room wondering if I'd ever truly earn my way back into Harper's heart. Because this – Emma's laughter, Harper's trust, the security of a family built on conscious choice rather than just circumstance – this was worth everything.
Chapter 27
Harper
"Best birthday ever!" Emma declared as Jack and I tucked her into bed, her voice drowsy but supremely satisfied. Her new stuffed butterfly – a gift from Grandma and Grandpa Henderson – was clutched firmly in her arms.?
"I'm so glad, sweetheart," I said, kissing her forehead. "Sweet dreams about butterflies and swings."
"And cake," she added sleepily. "Don't forget the cake dreams."
"Definitely cake dreams," Jack agreed, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Sleep tight, birthday girl."
As we turned off the lights and headed downstairs, I felt that familiar contentment that came with knowing Emma was happy, secure, and completely confident in her parents' love. But tonight there was something more – a sense of celebration not just for Emma's birthday, but for how far our family had come.
"Good party," Jack said as we settled on the couch with glasses of wine, the living room still showing traces of our daughter's butterfly celebration.
"The best," I agreed. "She's going to remember this one."
I curled up against Jack's side, marveling as I always did at how natural this felt now. For so long, physical closeness had felt loaded with history and careful negotiation. Now it was simply... us. Husband and wife, comfortable in our own skin and with each other.
"Harps," Jack said, his voice thoughtful as he traced a pattern on my hand. "Do you ever look back at the last few years? At the road we took to get back here?"
"Sometimes," I admitted. "It was a long road."
"The longest," he agreed. "And you made sure we didn't take any shortcuts."
"There were no shortcuts to take," I said.
"I know," he said softly. "You were protecting us."
"I had to," I said. "You showed me that I couldn't trust your judgment, your priorities... I needed to know you understood what you'd broken. Not just my heart, but my faith in your character."
Jack was quiet for a moment, processing this. "The separate bedrooms thing... was that part of being careful?"
