Not a modern reprint. An original.
My breath catches.
"How did you?—"
"You mentioned it once. After the wedding. You were half-asleep, and you said your mother used to read it to you. That Pooh always knew the right thing to say when life felt too big."
I stare at the book in my hands, tears blurring my vision.
"I thought you might want him back," Adrian says quietly. “You can read to the baby.”
I can't speak. There’s a lump in my throat as I take in what he is saying. Adrian, a man who ordered me not to work, who made it clear he wants to control my life, remembered something I said in my sleep.
And not only that, he spent a small fortune on a personal gesture that we could pass on to our child.
It means he sees me.
Not just the vessel carrying his child. Not just the problem he needs to manage.
Me.
"I don't know what to say," I whisper.
"You don't have to say anything."
"This is—" I stop. Look up at him through my tears. "This is the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens.
"Then I've been doing everything else wrong."
"Maybe." I laugh through my tears. "But this is a good start."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
"Tell me about her. Your mother."
"Why?"
"Because you’re my wife, and I want to know about you.”
So I tell him.
About my mother reading to me every night. About how she'd do all the voices, especially Eeyore's gloomy monotone that would make me giggle. About how she'd tell me that even on the hardest days, there was always honey and friends and home.
And then, because he's listening—really listening—I tell him about losing her. About being twenty years old and suddenly responsible for Gabe, and how hard that was, especially when my dad then passed. About how restoration became my sanctuary, the one place where I could fix things that were broken, and how I’m good at it.
I want him to understand my passion for my job.
"That's why you wanted your tools back," Adrian says. "It's not just a job."
"No. It's—" I stop. "It's the only thing I've ever been good at. Taking something damaged and making it whole again."
"You're good at more than that."
"Like what?"
"Surviving." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Adapting. Being strong even when you're terrified. I've watched you these past weeks. You could have broken. But you didn't."
