For so long, I lived coiled around the fear of everything collapsing, of not being good enough to hold on, to anticipate every need, every schedule, every shift in mood. Worried that if I failed at holding it together, the whole world would fall on top of me. On top of us.
I thought that was strength.
But somewhere between Rhys’s crazy whiteboards, the half-burnt dinners (and incredible chicken marsala), the pickups and drop-offs, and the way he’s home now, I realized the fear isn’t protecting me. It’s caging me.
Even worse, I’m the one holding the cage door shut.
The epiphany snuck up on me slowly.
I’ve learned to trust Rhys—because of how he listens, how he keeps his promises, how he pausesinstead of exploding, how I’m able to breathe easier because he’s holding the sky with me.
Yes, I’ve learned to trust Rhys, but even more importantly, I’ve learned to trust myself.
To accept that I can want things without tumbling into guilt.
To know that I can do the work I love and still be a good wife and mother.
To believe that I don’t have to brace for disaster every minute of every day.
I used to think the future is something fragile we can break by demanding too much from life.
Now I know the opposite is true.
The future is something we build, imperfectly, yes, but intentionally, and most vitally, together.
I feel this truth in my bones.
And strangely, beautifully, I’m a better version of myself because of it.
CHAPTER 34
Rhys
Eighteen years married. Twenty-one together.
Not just technically-still-together made it. Actually-choosing-each-other made it.
“Dad!” Mikaela’s voice barrels in from the hallway. “You’re burning the onions!”
I jerk back to the stove. “They’re caramelizing. It’s called flavor.”
She appears in the doorway, ponytail crooked, flour on her cheek, hands on her hips. “They’re smoking like the building’s gonna catch on fire.”
“Yeah, Dad, that’s not flavor, that’s arson.” Finn leans around his sister. “Need me to call 911, Dr. Prescott? Or Mom?”
“Out,” I tell them, grabbing the wooden spoon. “Both of you. Chef at work.”
The onions are fine. Maybe a little aggressive, butfine.
I stir them down into the pan, letting the butter and olive oil mellow the edges, before tossing in garlic and thyme. The kitchen starts to smell like actual food and not a structural hazard.
Jayne’s favorite meal: lemon-thyme roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and garlicky green beans. With proper, grown-up gravy that doesn’t come from a packet. I made it once during my sabbatical, and she made a noise at the first bite that I want to hear again.
I slide the chicken into the oven and turn to face my children, who are still in the doorway, clearly not planning to go anywhere.
“I thought I told you two to work on the cake.”
“Weareworking on it,” Mikaela says, very offended. “We’re letting it cool so we can frost it.”
