Amber’s expression shifts slightly at that. Not softened. Adjusted. “And did she?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. But that honesty nauseates me because it’s not entirely true.
The band crescendos inside. Laughter spills outward.
Amber studies me in silence for a moment, as though recalculating the terrain entirely. The hostility from earlier has shifted into something more analytical. I recognize that look. It’s the same expression she wore when we used to discuss investment portfolios or social events—measured, strategic, assessing risk versus reward.
Then she laughs. It’s not cruel laughter. It’s sharp, almost incredulous. “At your age,” she says, shaking her head slightly, “you have more than paternity to figure out.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re not in your twenties anymore. This isn’t just a romantic complication. This is diapers and sleeping schedules and pediatricians and daycares.” She folds her arms loosely. “All the good daycares are full before the first ultrasound. People put their names down years in advance. If those boys aren’t on a list already, you’re going to be scrambling.”
The image hits me with unexpected force. Daycares. Waiting lists. Drop-offs before work. Midnight feedings. I haven’t allowed myself to move beyond the shock of fatherhood into thelogistics of it. I’ve been standing in the abstract—two sons, mine—without stepping into the reality of it.
I know that Amber means all of this cruelly, like some sort of karmic retribution, but the more she piles onto that list, the more excited I am about doing all of it.
Amber continues, almost amused now. “You’ll have to re-learn the rhythm of it. The screaming at three in the morning. The way sleep deprivation makes you question every decision you’ve ever made. The pediatric appointments you reschedule three times because one of them has a fever and the other won’t stop crying.”
“Yeah.”
There’s something faintly satisfied in her tone. “This,” she adds, gesturing toward the reception hall, “might be the best revenge I ever got on you.”
I blink at her. “Revenge? For what?”
She studies me carefully before answering. “For cheating on me.”
I feel my spine straighten instinctively. “I never cheated on you,” I say immediately. “There was no one else. Not ever. You think I cheated on you? Is that why you started fucking Meron?”
She doesn’t flinch. “No. But you did cheat on me with your work, Damian.”
The correction disarms me more than the accusation. “What are you talking about?”
“You have all the money you could ever want or need,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “But you chose medicine overme. Over your son. You chose overnight shifts and weekends and holidays in the emergency department.”
“It’s an honorable profession?—”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. But you never needed it.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. She’s not entirely wrong.
“I married into the Baylock family,” she continues. “I thought that meant something very specific. I thought it meant a husband who would be home. A husband who would dote. A husband who would choose me first.”
She looks past me toward the dance floor where Jason and Faith are now swaying awkwardly to a slow song. “You chose your profession. Over and over again.”
“I chose a purpose,” I reply.
“Family should have been your purpose, Damian,” she counters.
I understand her meaning. “I need more than that out of life, Amber.”
“I know that now.” She sighs. “I thought marrying you meant I’d have a life of leisure. A husband who didn’t have to work unless it was to please me. Someone who would build a life around me.”
I inhale slowly. “I never promised that.”
“No. You never did.” There’s no venom in her voice now. “You never promised the life I imagined. I built that fantasy myself. And when I realized you weren’t going to live inside it, I resented you for it.”
I stand there for a moment after she says it, letting the noise from the reception swell and recede behind us like tidewater.The band shifts songs again. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls. None of it belongs to this conversation.
