These last few weeks have been the loneliest of my life, even though you’ve been right there, in the same building. We sleep under the same roof, breathe the same air, but we’re strangers. I kept waiting for you to come back to me. To look at me. To ask if I’m okay in the way you always used to, like the answer mattered more than anything in the world.
But you stopped asking. And I stopped expecting.
I tried to prevent this. To carry on like it didn’t happen. I think a part of me always knew you wouldn’t handle it well. And then, once I told you, I started to think maybe everything would get better. I thought the guilt and the fear and the shame would lift a little once you finally knew the truth. But instead, something in you changed. You didn’t yell. You didn’t blame me. You just left. Quietly. Repeatedly. And somehow that hurt more than anything.
I’m trying not to blame you. I know you’re hurting too. I know this broke you in some way I can’t see. But I needed you, Kade. I needed the man who held my face in both hands and told me the world couldn’t touch me with you around. I needed the man who used to pull me onto his lap for no reason other than wanting me close. I needed the man who never let me walk away without a kiss.
I needed you. And you weren’t there.
And now everything feels wrong. The club meetings. The secrets. The cold stares across the bar. The way you talk to me like we’re acquaintances instead of two people who built a life together.
Lately, all I hear is distance. All I feel is distance. And I can’t breathe in that distance anymore.
So, I’m doing the only thing that feels fair to both of us.
I’m leaving.
It’s not out of hate or spite. But staying here, pretending we’re fine, pretending we can fix this by existing together, is killing me from the inside out. And it’s not just me anymore.
I’m pregnant.
I didn’t tell you because I was scared of your reaction. Of seeing confirmation in your eyes that you don’t want this life with me anymore. That the child growing inside me would feel like a chain around your neck instead of the miracle I thought we wanted.
I told myself I would wait for the right moment. But the right moment never came. You were asleep in your office, or out on runs, or avoiding me altogether. I realised the only person I’ve spoken to about this pregnancy is my therapist.
It makes me sad to think we couldn’t share it, Kade. That we didn’t buy the test together, excited and nervous. That we won’t make a huge announcement, and share our news with the only people I’ve considered family.
Instead, I did it alone, in our bathroom, whilst I sobbed. That line didn’t bring me happiness like I wanted it to. But it made me face up to my reality.
Martha and I have found a little place outside Lincoln. It’s quiet, and safe. The type of place where neighbours say hello in the street, and the crime rate is practically zero.
I won’t have to look over my shoulder waiting for old ghosts to catch up with me. And it’s somewhere I won’t feel like a burden, or a reminder of everything that went wrong.
I’ll keep my phone number. Just in case you want to be a part of this baby’s life. I’d never take that choice away from you. But I will say, you need to be sure. I won’t let you break their heart by being half in. I’m six weeks gone. Plenty of time to think about what you want. But until then, I’m begging that you stay away, Kade.
I need to learn how to breathe again, to feel safe. And I need to give our baby a chance to grow without pain wrapped around every corner.
I love you. I always will. But love stopped being enough, and neither of us said it out loud.
So, this is me saying it.
Take care, Kade. Never stop being who you are.
Love Always, Eden x
My vision swims, blurring the room into shadows and shapes I can’t focus on. Then Diesel comes into view, moving toward me like he’s afraid I might topple out of the chair.
“You okay, Pres? It’s eight a.m.”
I grin, lifting the half empty whisky bottle like it’s something to be proud of. “Want one?”
“No.” His brows pull together. “It’seight a.m., brother. What’s going on?”
“I,” I announce, wobbling the bottle for dramatic effect, “am a single man.” I laugh. It sounds wrong. Hollow.
Diesel freezes. “But—”
“Eden left me a lovely little letter.” I thump my chest with the side of my fist. “Got me right here.”
