Owen remained beside me, solid and quiet. Marcus stared at me like he’d never seen me before.
Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this version of me—the one who didn’t shrink or accommodate or make herself smaller to avoid conflict—was someone he’d never bothered to notice.
“I have rights,” Marcus said finally. The bluster was gone. “Legally?—”
“I know what your rights are.” I released Owen’s hand and stepped inside, returning with Diana’s folder. “I consulted an attorney.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
“A reality check.”
I opened the folder and showed him the custody schedules. The proposed parenting plan.
“This is what fatherhood looks like, Marcus. Not the title. Not the claim. Not the legal rights. The work. Every other weekend. Wednesday evenings. Alternating holidays. Showing up at two in the morning when she’s sick. Helping with homework when you’d rather be at the office. Being there when it’s hard and boring and thankless.”
I handed him the papers.
“Eighteen years,” I said. “Can you do that? Can you show up—every single time, no matter what deal is closing or what meeting you have—for the next eighteen years?”
Marcus stared at the pages. The tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.
“This is…” He trailed off.
“The reality,” I said. “Not the Instagram version. Not the Christmas-card photo op. The actual, day-in, day-out reality of being a parent.”
Owen moved to the porch railing, giving us space while staying close. I could feel him there, present without interfering.
Marcus flipped through the documents. The schedule. The child support calculations. The record of his absence.
“You’ve been building a case against me.”
“I’ve been documenting the truth. There’s a difference.”
He looked up at me, something in his expression shifting—fight draining away, replaced by exhaustion.
“I have a life in Denver,” he said quietly. “My career. The Singapore expansion will mean months of travel. I can’t just?—”
“I know.”
“Every other weekend, Grace. That’s not—” He shook his head. “I can’t commit to that. Not with my schedule.”
“I know.”
He stared at the papers, then at my belly.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Really. What do you actually want?”
“I want you to be honest,” I said. “Not with me. With yourself. Do you want to be this baby’s father? Really? Or do you just not want to be the man who walked away?”
I waited.
“I want to want it,” he said finally. His voice cracked. “I want to be the kind of man who?—”
He stopped.
“But you’re not,” I finished gently. “Not right now. Maybe not ever.”
His shoulders sagged. The folder hung loose in his hands.
