“That was incredible,” he said quietly. “You were incredible.”
“I was honest.” I turned in his arms. “Maybe for the first time in eleven years.”
Owen framed my face with his hands.
“I’m going to be here,” he said. “Every time. Every two AM feeding. Every boring Tuesday. Every hard conversation.”
My eyes burned. “I know. That’s why I chose you.”
He kissed me—slow, certain, the way he did everything.
Three weeks until my due date. Three weeks until everything changed again.
But for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of what was coming.
I was ready.
CHAPTER 18
Grace
Two weeksof waking up beside him.
Two weeks of Owen’s flannels migrating from the carriage house to my closet. His razor was on the bathroom sink. His boots by the kitchen door, right next to mine, like they’d always been there. The house felt different with him in it—fuller, warmer, like it had been waiting for this all along.
I hadn’t known life could be like this: easy and uncomplicated. A life built from small moments instead of grand gestures.
Morning coffee for him, tea for me, at the same table where we’d eaten Saturday breakfast together for years. His hand found mine across the worn wood. He looked at me over the rim of his mug like I was something worth savoring.
He’d taken over the heavy lifting without being asked. The firewood. The groceries. The things that had gotten harder as my belly grew. But it wasn’t just the physical stuff. He noticed when I was tired before I said anything. Made me sit down when I’d been on my feet too long. Rubbed my back at night when the ache got bad.
“We should probably install the car seat today,” he said one morning, and the word caught me off guard.
We.
He said it like we’d been a unit for years instead of weeks. Like there was no question about what came next.
I reached for him without thinking now. Touched his arm as I passed. Leaned into his shoulder during bad TV. At night, his hand would find my belly in the dark. He’d talk to the baby in that low voice of his, the one that made my chest ache.
“Hey, little one. It’s me again. Your mom’s hogging the blankets, just so you know. You’re going to have to fight for your share.”
“I don’t hog the blankets.”
“You absolutely hog the blankets.” His lips pressed against my shoulder. “I don’t mind.”
I’d fall asleep to the sound of his voice, his palm warm against my skin, and wake up with his arm still around me. Still there. Still staying.
One evening, we were in the nursery. We sat side by side, watching the sunset paint the yellow walls gold.
“We need to talk about names,” I said.
Owen’s hand found mine. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Yeah?”
“Your grandmother’s name was Margaret, right?”
I nodded. “Margaret Eleanor Hayes. She hated Margaret, though. Everyone called her Maggie.”
