Owen wasn’t coming.
The realization landed somewhere in my chest, a weight I’d been trying not to feel since he walked out three days ago. I’d watched his truck disappear down the driveway, watched the dust settle behind it, watched the space where he used to be fill with nothing but silence.
If you want me—really want me—you’re going to have to come find me.
His voice kept playing in my head.
I set the second mug back in the cabinet. Folded the extra napkin and put it away. Pulled the extra chair back from thetable, where it had sat angled toward mine for so many years I’d stopped noticing.
The kitchen felt empty without him. Too quiet. Too still. The house had a way of holding onto absence, of making you feel the shape of what was missing.
I thought about what he’d said. That he loved me. That he couldn’t keep living in my carriage house, building nurseries, pretending he didn’t feel what he felt while I figured out what I wanted.
And what had I said back?
Nothing. I’d said nothing. I’d stood here in my grandmother’s kitchen with his heart in my hands and let him walk away.
The baby shifted, a slow roll beneath my ribs. Getting bigger now. Running out of room. Soon she’d be here, and I’d have to figure out how to be a mother while I was still figuring out how to be myself.
I pressed my hand against the curve of my belly and looked at the empty chair.
Sixteen years of Saturday mornings. Sixteen years of too-sweet coffee and conversations that never felt like small talk. Sixteen years of Owen showing up, fixing things, being there.
And when he finally asked me to choose him, I froze.
I’d been freezing my whole life.
Marcus came down at nine.
He was dressed for travel, the way he always seemed to be lately. Button-down shirt—the expensive one. His phone was already in his hand, scrolling through emails before he’d even said good morning.
“Coffee smells good.” He poured himself a cup without looking at me. Took his usual seat at the head of the table, the one Gran had always sat in. He’d claimed it the first time he visited, back when I thought his confidence was charming instead of presumptuous.
“There are cinnamon rolls,” I said. “Fresh.”
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Listen, we need to talk about logistics.”
Logistics. The word sat wrong in the air, too clinical for a kitchen that had seen four generations of women laugh and cry and build lives from scratch.
“I’ve got to fly out today for the Hartwell closing. Might be two weeks, maybe three if the financing gets complicated.” His thumb moved across the screen, swiping, scrolling. “But I was thinking—when I get back, we should sit down and really map this out. I want to be involved, Grace. I want to do this right.”
I studied him across the table. The man I’d loved for eleven years. The man I’d rearranged my entire life around, shrunk myself to fit beside. He was talking about our child like a project plan, something to be scheduled and optimized.
Like logistics.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked.
He glanced up, frowning slightly. “What?”
“Last night. Did you sleep okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
“I was just asking.”
He went back to his phone. I waited. He didn’t ask how I’d slept. Didn’t notice that my eyes were red, that I’d been crying at three in the morning, that I hadn’t touched the food in front of me.
I thought about Saturday mornings with Owen. The way he’d walk in and know immediately if something was wrong. The way he’d pour himself coffee. The way the conversation flowedwithout effort, silence was comfortable instead of awkward. The way he looked at me sometimes, like I was the most interesting thing in the room.
