The journey through her memories was like being forced into her shoes. And it hurt. I hurt for her and hurt for our babies, more than I ever thought I could.
Felt like my heart was pumping slow, laboring under the weight. Because the worst part was…I understood.
For the first time, I understood how I’d abandoned my wife. I got why she left. I saw it. Plain as day. A few times, I’d told her I understood. But I didn’t. Not like this.
I destroyed our marriage single-handedly.
When I flipped past the last ultrasound, all the birth flowers from the previous pages were arranged together like a bouquet. A bouquet of loss and pain. But when I looked at Miranda, she was still smiling. She was pressed against me,her face leaning on my shoulder. Her finger tracing the edge of the page.
“I think these are beautiful.”
I nodded once.
“I don’t know a lot about flowers, but I’m always able to pick these varieties out now if I see them in real life.”
I swallowed. She needed me to say something, but words were inadequate. What my wife had created for our children was…sacred. Hauntingly tender.
And so very Miranda.
“Miranda”—I cleared my throat, blinked a few times—“this is…very special. It shows what an amazing mom you are.”
“Turn the page.”
I did, hoping I wasn’t about to get another gut punch.
It was wishful thinking. A deep, involuntary breath filled my lungs at the picture of Miranda with a big, rounded belly. I wasn’t able to catch many details about the picture because my vision started swimming. I pressed my lips together,hatingthis feeling.
Miranda must’ve seen my struggle. Because her hand slid into the crook of my arm and squeezed. “Jack, you don’t have to keep looking if you don’t want to.”
I had to relax my jaw to answer. “I want to.”
There were four pages of pictures about Miranda’s pregnancy. Medical report clippings, “it’s a boy” in calligraphy, hospital information, and more. Several gorgeous pictures of her littered the pages. “Who took these?”
“My friend, Charlotte, from work. She just took them with her iPhone. I know they aren’t very good.”
I shook my head. “They’re perfect, and you are beautiful.”
“Charlotte took some time off to help me after the birth too. She was a real friend.”
I turned to find pictures of Kacey as a newborn all overthe page. On Miranda’s chest. On a weigh table. Wrapped in a striped blanket. So many.
I looked up and away from the book, leaning my head back on the headboard with a steadying breath. I hadn’t cried since I was like nine. Didn’t feel good about starting now.
Miranda’s hand slipped up to my shoulder. “Are—are you okay, Jack?”
My swallow hurt, and I kept my eyes closed. “I don’t know, honestly.”
“I understand.”
I tipped my head back down to finish flipping through the pictures. Now, I had a mission. Get to the end. Quickly.
But when the end came, there were about thirty photos tucked loosely between the pages.
“I stuck those in there to make some more pages with, but I haven’t worked on my scrapbook in a long time.”
I picked up the photos, straightening the stack. They were all of Kacey. Growing, changing, learning, achieving.
A tear leaking out onto my face felt like hell. I swiped it off, muttering a cuss word. “He’s a—” I couldn’t even finish. Emotions made my voice feel like a rusty wheel. Like a faucet knob that had calcified.
