"That's not going to happen," I say firmly. "David is stubborn, yes, but he's not cruel. He'll cool down, and then we can try to talk to him again."
She nods her head and tries her best to look hopeful.
“I think I’m ready for sleep,” she says. “You?”
"I'm exhausted too," I reply, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me. This confrontation with David has drained us both.
I follow Emma to her small bedroom, watching as she moves through her nighttime routine with mechanical motions. She seems almost in a trance, going through the familiar steps while her mind is clearly elsewhere.
In the bathroom, she starts brushing her teeth, and I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to crowd her but unwilling to let her out of my sight.
She rinses her mouth and then runs her fingers through her hair with a frustrated sigh. "Shoot, I need to wash my hair. I have a shift at the restaurant in the morning and it's a greasy mess."
"Let me wash it for you," I offer, the words surprising even me.
Emma turns, toothbrush still in hand, her expression confused. "What?"
"Your hair. Let me wash it for you." I step closer. "You're exhausted, and I want to help."
She studies my face, searching for something. "You want to wash my hair?"
"Yes." I hold her gaze, trying to convey everything I can't put into words—how desperately I need to take care of her right now, how powerless I feel in the face of her pain, how this small act might be the only comfort I can offer.
She nods, her eyes meeting mine for a moment before she turns away to adjust the shower temperature. I watch as she pulls her shirt over her head, revealing the delicate curve of her spine. Something about her vulnerability in this moment makes my chest ache. She steps out of her leggings, and I'm struck again by the small swell of her stomach, the visible evidence of our children growing inside her.
I undress quickly while Emma grabs an extra towel for me from under the sink. She hands it to me, her movements hesitant, almost shy, despite all the times we've been together. This feels different somehow. More intimate.
We step into the shower together, the warm water cascading over us. For a long moment, we just hold each other, skin to skin, letting the heat surround us. I feel her heartbeat against my chest, the gentle curve of her stomach pressed against me. I run my hands slowly up and down her back, feeling each muscle. She sighs deeply, her body melting against mine.
"That feels good," she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the rush of water.
I continue the gentle massage, working my way up to her shoulders, feeling the knots of tension there. Her head drops forward, giving me better access, and I press my thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of her neck.
"Where’s your shampoo?" I ask.
She reaches for a tall cream bottle and hands it to me. I pop the cap and pour some into my hand.
I work the shampoo gently through her wet hair. My fingers massage her scalp in slow, deliberate circles, and I feel her lean into my touch. She sighs softly as I work from her temples to the crown of her head, then down to the nape of her neck. The familiar scent of her shampoo—something floral with a hint of vanilla—fills the steamy air around us.
"Close your eyes," I murmur, carefully tilting her head back slightly to keep the suds from running down her face. My thumbs trace small circles at her hairline while my fingers work through the length of her hair. I've never done this for anyone before, not even Victoria during our twenty years together, and there's something profoundly intimate about it that catches me off guard.
When her hair is totally soaped up, I guide her under the spray, shielding her eyes with one hand while I rinse the suds away with the other.
"One more time," I say, reaching for the bottle again. "I hear that's what women do."
She gives me a small smile, the first genuine one I've seen since her father walked out.
I pour more shampoo into my palm. This time, my movements are more confident as I massage her scalp, taking my time to work through each section of her hair. I can feel her relaxing even more under my touch, her shoulders dropping away from her ears.
"Do you need conditioner?" I ask, my voice low against the sound of running water.
"No, I use the leave-in kind," she says, leaning back slightly into my hands. "I'll put it in after we get out."
I guide her under the spray again, watching as the water carries the suds down her back, over the gentle curve of her hips. We quickly wash our bodies with soap, my hands moving efficiently over her skin, not lingering despite how much I want to touch her. This isn't about that right now. It's about comfort. Connection.
We rinse off and I shut off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Emma before I grab my own towel. She's shivering slightly despite the steam filling the small bathroom.
"Here," I say, rubbing her arms through the towel. "Let's get you warm."
