"Learning that vulnerability isn't weakness. Understanding that my father's choices aren't my destiny. Realizing that loving you doesn't mean losing myself."
She's quiet for a moment. "Can I see your trust journal?"
I pull out my phone. Open the Notes app. Hand it to her.
Forty-seven entries now. Small victories and hard truths documented over months.
She scrolls through, reading. I watch her face, see the tears gathering.
"This is real," she whispers. "All of this work. It's real."
"Every word."
She sets the phone down. Looks at me with those eyes that have haunted me for three months.
"What if you get scared again?" Her voice breaks. "What if the baby comes and it's too much and you panic and—"
"I'll still be scared." I lean forward. "Probably often. Parenthood terrifies me. Building a life with you terrifies me. But I'll tell you. Instead of running, I'll tell you when I'm scared."
"How can I trust that?"
"You can't. Not yet. But I'm asking you to try."
She reaches for my hand. This time, she doesn't let go.
"I want to try." Her words are barely audible. "Really try. Not just co-parenting. Us."
My breath catches. "Are you sure?"
"No." A sad smile. "But I love you. And that's enough to try."
"I love you too." The words pour out. "God, Bailey, I love you so much. I never stopped. Even when you hated me, even when I deserved it—"
She kisses me.
Tentative at first, like she's testing whether this is real. Then deeper, her hands in my hair, pulling me closer.
When we break apart, we're both crying.
"Stay," she whispers. "Please stay."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
***
She leads me to her bedroom, and everything slows down.
This isn't like before—frantic and desperate. This is careful. Vulnerable. Weighted with everything we've been through.
I reach for the hem of her sweater, and she lifts her arms, letting me pull it over her head. My breath catches. She's showing now—the curve of her stomach undeniable, beautiful. Her breasts are fuller, her body changed by our daughter.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"You're perfect."
I trace the curve of her belly with my fingertips, and she shivers. Her hands work at my shirt buttons, fumbling slightly with nerves or need—I'm not sure which.
