A week later, Frost knocks on my door.
“Carol… you gotta see this.”
He leads me down the hall to one of the spare rooms.The one the club used for storage.The door’s open.Inside, Humbug stands surrounded by piles of tiny blankets, boxes of diapers, a stuffed reindeer, and a crib half-assembled on the floor.
He’s sweating, cursing under his breath, holding a tiny mobile shaped like snowflakes.He freezes when he sees me.
“Don’t freak out,” he mutters.“It ain’t done.”
My throat tightens.“You did all this?”
He shrugs, embarrassed.“Baby needs a place to sleep.Don’t mean he’s gotta sleep in a den of bikers.”
“You picked snowflakes,” I whisper, touching the mobile.
He grunts.“You like Christmas crap.”
I step closer, fingertips brushing the crib.It’s sturdy.Warm.Safe.
“Jack… this is beautiful.”
He looks away, ears flushing.“Don’t say that.I ain’t…”
I wrap my arms around him before I can think.He stiffens, then melts, hands settling careful and protective around me and the curve of my stomach.
“You’re earning it,” I whisper into his chest.
“All of it.”
The next month, Humbug’s waiting outside my door at dawn.He hands me a thermos of peppermint cocoa, extra sweet.He doesn’t say anything about it, just walks me to the truck like he’s terrified I’ll change my mind.
At the clinic, the doctor asks, “Any father’s questions today?”
Humbug clears his throat.“Yeah.Uh… how fragile is she supposed to be?‘Cause she’s pickin’ up heavy shit and it’s makin’ me crazy.”
“Jack,” I groan.
The doctor laughs.“She’s fine.But keep doing what you’re doing.Support helps.”
He nods with grim determination, like he’s been given a mission.When the ultrasound shows the baby’s profile, Humbug’s hand covers his mouth.
“That’s…he looks like...”We find out we are having a boy.
“You okay?”I ask.
He nods, swallowing hard.“He’s real.”
“He is.”
He whispers, “I’ll never let him down.”
Forgiveness isn’t one moment, it’s a hundred small ones.It’s Humbug knocking before entering my room.It’s him leaving snacks outside my door because I keep forgetting to eat.It’s the way he cuts my fruit.
The way he lets me snap at him when my nerves fray.The way he silently installs a softer mattress and pretends it was “club inventory.”The way he refuses to let me carry anything heavier than a cupcake.
One night, I find another note slipped inside the journal.
You said forgiveness comes in pieces.So, I’m giving you pieces back, every day, until you let me hold you again.
