"I'm not saying I forgive you." I need him to understand this. "I don't. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"I understand."
"But I'm not saying no to trying. Slowly."
His relief is visible, but he doesn't let himself celebrate. "What does slowly look like?"
"Coffee. Once a week. We talk about the baby. About us. See where it goes."
"I can do that."
"And you keep going to therapy."
"I was planning to regardless."
I nod. Process this. "I'm almost nineteen weeks now. The twenty-week anatomy scan is in two weeks. Friday at 2 PM. That's the big one—where they check everything. I'll text you the details."
"Thank you."
We stand. The awkwardness returns—what do we do now? Hug? Shake hands? Pretend the last three months didn't happen?
I settle for a small, sad smile. "Same time next week?"
"I'll be here."
I walk toward the door. His voice stops me.
"Bailey?"
I turn.
"You look beautiful. The pregnancy—it suits you."
The compliment lands differently than it would have months ago. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... true.
"Thank you."
I walk out into the afternoon sun. Touch my stomach as I cross the street to my car.
"Okay, baby," I whisper. "We're trying. I don't know if this will work. But we're trying."
The fear is still there. The hurt hasn't disappeared.
But underneath it, something else.
Hope.
Fragile and tentative and terrifying.
But hope nonetheless.
I drive back to Gretchen's apartment, and for the first time in three months, I don't cry.
26
Daniel
"It's a girl." The words echo in the dim room
