Eden and I have slipped into a rhythm I didn’t know was possible for us anymore. Coffee before antenatal class. Short walks when her back aches. Sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, close enough to feel each other’s presence but far enough not to cross lines neither of us is ready to redraw.
There’s no touching unless she initiates it.
No pushing.
No asking for more.
And it’s harder than anything I’ve ever done.
The group sessions are helping more than I expected. Sitting in a circle of men who look nothing like me on the surface butcarry the same guilt, the same anger, the same helplessness has cracked something open inside my chest.
I’ve learned that silence isn’t strength. That fixing doesn’t make everything go away. That love doesn’t mean control.
Patience, apparently, is a skill. One I never bothered to learn before because I always took what I wanted and dealt with the fallout later.
Now, I wait.
I wait while Eden talks about the baby without looking at me.
I wait while she decides whether I’m invited into a moment or kept at arm’s length.
I wait while she figures out whether I’m safe again.
Some days, it feels like progress. Other days, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step sends everything crashing down.
I miss her in ways that have nothing to do with sex. I miss how she used to reach for me without thinking. How she’d curl into my side for comfort.
Now, when our hands brush accidentally, she stills for half a second before deciding whether to pull away or let it happen. And every time she lets it happen, it feels like a victory I didn’t earn but won’t waste.
My kutte stays in the wardrobe. It used to be my armour, the thing that got me seen whenever I walked into a room. It was the badge of honour I thought mattered more than anything else in the world. The badge that brought other men to their knees before me. The badge that caused fear in their eyes.
And when I catch my reflection in shop windows now, I barely recognise myself.
The dark T-shirts have been replaced by lighter ones. My Levi’s are worn from wrangling sheep on the farm, not covered in oil spills or tattoo ink.
I can’t lie and say I don’t miss it. That I don’t crave the danger or the power. Or that feeling of the rumble of the bike beneath me, the freedom that offers, burns a hole in my chest. I find myself sketching at night when I’m alone and thinking of Eden. I draw her. I draw our baby.
And on the days when Eden glances my way, when she almost smiles before remembering she’s supposed to be careful, I know I’m doing the right thing.
I am becoming the man she deserves. The man I picture her with.
The dream of having our own place, a dog, and a white picket fence, it could happen. It’s not so impossible anymore.
I purchase two decaffeinated coffees. Since our regular meet-ups, I’ve switched. If she’s suffering, then I’m suffering with her.
When Eden walks in five minutes later, she steals my breath.
Every few days, she seems bigger than before. Her bump has taken on a beautiful curve now, enhancing her body in ways I can’t even put into words. And I love it.
She shrugs out of her jumper, the fitted top beneath clinging to her, and I have to fight the instinct to reach out and place a hand over her stomach. The baby’s so much more active now, especially at night, much to Eden’s dismay.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me and immediately slurping her coffee with a contented sigh. “I overslept.”
“Was he up all night again?” I ask.
She arches a brow. “First of all, we’ve discussed this. He might be a she. I don’t want you disappointed.”
I grin. “You know I don’t care what we have. She’ll be my absolute princess, and he’ll be my prince.”
