"I'm scared that Victoria's right. That I'm just a temporary part of your life. That when the newness wears off, you'll realize I'm not sophisticated enough, not elegant enough, not enough." Her voice breaks. "I'm scared that I'm going to lose myself trying to be what you need. And I'm scared that if I don't try, I'm going to lose you."
The raw honesty of it breaks something open in me. This is what Victoria did. What Samantha did. They took every fear Emma already had about our relationship and weaponized it.
"Look at me," I say gently.
She does, her eyes swimming with tears.
"You are already everything I need. Exactly as you are. I don't want you to change, to become more sophisticated or elegant or whatever bullshit standards Victoria thinks matter. I want you. A woman who's terrified of losing her independence but brave enough to try building a life together anyway."
"But what if?—"
"What if I'm not enough foryou?" I interrupt. "What if I'm too old, too set in my ways, too damaged from my marriage to give you what you deserve? What if my tendency to throw money at problems drives you away? What if my daughter never accepts you? What if your father disowns you because of me?"
She blinks, surprised.
"We can play the 'what if' game forever, Emma. Or we can choose to trust this. Trust us." I lean my forehead against hers. "I'm not asking you to stop being afraid. I'm just asking you to be afraid with me instead of alone."
For a long moment, we just breathe together. Then she whispers, "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I. But we'll figure it out." I pull back enough to see her face. "One decision at a time. One day at a time.”
We sit like that for a while, processing. Then Emma says, "We need to tell my parents. Before Victoria does."
Every instinct I have screams to agree. To get ahead of this, control the narrative, manage the fallout.
But I force myself to think past my first impulse. Think about what Emma needs instead of what I want to fix.
"Do we?" I ask carefully.
She pulls back, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—yes, we’ll tell them eventually. But Emma, you're barely ten weeks pregnant. You've just had two incredibly traumatic encounters with my family. Your business is at a critical juncture." I choose my words carefully. "What happens ifwe tell your parents now and they react badly? If they demand you stay away from me? Or tell you they want you to move home? Can you handle that kind of fight right now, on top of everything else?"
She pales. "I—I don't know."
"Obviously, we can’t hide it forever," I clarify. "But we could wait. Get through your first trimester. Let you catch your breath. Give us time to build a stronger foundation before we face that battle."
"That feels like lying."
"It's not lying. It's protecting yourself. Protecting us." I take her hands. "Emma, you're exhausted. Emotionally, physically. The stress isn't good for you or the babies. What if we just... took some time? For us. Without the entire world weighing in."
She worries her bottom lip, thinking. "What about Victoria? What if she tells him?"
"Victoria has never liked your dad and they really don’t have a relationship. I’m almost positive she’s not going to tell him. And even if she did, we could handle it then." I squeeze her hands.
The tension in her shoulders eases slightly.
"We can tell them when you're ready. When we're ready. On our terms, not because Victoria or Samantha forced our hand."
She nods slowly. "Okay. We wait."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt. Because part of me—a significant part—is relieved to put off the inevitable confrontation with my best friend.
"He's going to hate me," I say quietly. "When we do tell him. David's going to feel betrayed, and he'll have every right to."
"I know." Emma's voice is small. "He's going to think you took advantage of me. That you're having a mid-life crisis."
"Are we making a mistake?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Keeping this from him?"
