Chapter 33
Jayne
The space beside me in bed is empty, cool.
For a disorienting heartbeat, old instincts flare.
The automatic assumption.
He’s still at the hospital.
He’s gone.
I shake my head. No, he came home. We talked. He kissed me.
I slip out of bed and pad down the hall.
Morning light spills through the blinds in slanted stripes, catching dust motes that sparkle like something magical.
I walk into the living room, and my hand goes onto my heart at the sight. My breath catches in my chest, sharp and unexpected, like someone pressed pause on me, because I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
Rhys is on the couch, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, completely dead to the world.
Mikaela is curled against his left side, lying half on him.
Finn is sprawled across the sectional, even as he’s leaning against his father.
A blanket is tangled around all three of them, mostly losing the battle.
I smile.
This is what I wanted, didn’t I?
Just this.
The man I married, asleep with our children, completely surrendered to the moment.
No pager.
No frantic energy or exhaustion so deep it carved shadows under his eyes.
Just Rhys.
Just theirs.
Just here.
My throat tightens.
There were so many years I stood in this same spot, well, maybe not this exact spot, but close enough, watching him walk out the door before sunrise or creep in after midnight, both of us pretending it wasn’t slowly hollowing us out.
And now he’s here, wrapped around our kids in a tangle of limbs and love and the kind of exhausted peace I used to think only existed in commercials.
I bend down carefully and lift the fallen edge of the blanket, draping it over all three of them.
Mikaela snuffles and shifts. Finn mumbles something in his sleep.
Rhys tightens his arm around both of them, protective even while unconscious.
I go to the kitchen and start the coffee machine. I make myself a cup and hold it, let the warmth of it settle into my palms.
The sun catches the steam rising from the mug, turning it soft and golden.
When I turn back toward the living room, Rhys stirs.
He blinks awake slowly, groggy, and adorably confused. His eyes land on me. He smiles tenderly, and I feel it way deep in my heart, my soul.
“Hey,” he rasps. “What time is it?”
“Early,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
He starts to nod off, then stops, like he remembered something. “You okay?”
I look at him, my man who once lived half outside our life, who is now here, under a blanket, holding our children like he never wants to let go.
And the truth comes easily. “Yeah. I am.”
His hand reaches out, barely awake, searching. I cross the room and let his fingers find mine. He holds on, instinctive and sure, even as his eyes drift closed again.
I stand there for a long moment, listening to all three of them breathe.
And right then and there, I let go of the fear, stop wondering how long this will last.
I’m not bracing for the fall any longer.
I’m not waiting for the old patterns to return anymore.
I’m trusting my husband, my kids, my family, and most importantly, myself to make this work.
These past months haven’t just been about Rhys stepping back from work. They’ve been about me stepping out of survival mode.
For so long, I lived coiled around the fear of everything collapsing, of not being good enough to hold on, to anticipate every need, every schedule, every shift in mood. Worried that if I failed at holding it together, the whole world would fall on top of me. On top of us.
I thought that was strength.
But somewhere between Rhys’s crazy whiteboards, the half-burnt dinners (and incredible chicken marsala), the pickups and drop-offs, and the way he’s home now, I realized the fear isn’t protecting me. It’s caging me.
Even worse, I’m the one holding the cage door shut.
The epiphany snuck up on me slowly.
I’ve learned to trust Rhys—because of how he listens, how he keeps his promises, how he pauses instead of exploding, how I’m able to breathe easier because he’s holding the sky with me.
Yes, I’ve learned to trust Rhys, but even more importantly, I’ve learned to trust myself.
To accept that I can want things without tumbling into guilt.
To know that I can do the work I love and still be a good wife and mother.
To believe that I don’t have to brace for disaster every minute of every day.
I used to think the future is something fragile we can break by demanding too much from life.
Now I know the opposite is true.
The future is something we build, imperfectly, yes, but intentionally, and most vitally, together.
I feel this truth in my bones.
And strangely, beautifully, I’m a better version of myself because of it.