Chapter Forty-Five #2
She wanted a family. I did too. I do. I wanted to be a better father than mine ever was, to fill all the empty spaces inside me with her happiness.
I imagined her face lighting up when we found out, how complete she would look holding our child.
Maybe then the hollow feeling I'd carried since childhood would finally disappear.
Maybe then I'd be enough—for her, for myself.
I'd never wanted to prove anything so desperately as my ability to make her whole in the way she deserved. But now I’m learning that we could have been whole without children.
That the void can be filled with our love for each other.
Or it could have. Before I wrecked it all.
**DECEMBER 3**
Our first miscarriage. I don’t have words for the look in her eyes. I tried to comfort her, but she just cried in the shower with the water running. I kept waiting for her to come out so I could fix it, but that’s not how it works. I couldn’t fix it. I could only wait for the pain to get less.
I paused, blinking back the first tears. I’d thought I’d done a good job of hiding the worst parts from him, but he had seen it all.
**JANUARY 21**
When the test was negative again, she said, “maybe it’s not meant to be,” and I told her to stop being melodramatic, but the truth is I thought the same thing. I can’t help but feel like it was my fault. Maybe I’m just as broken as my parents, and it’s contagious.
The entries shifted, the handwriting getting sloppier, the entries shorter, as if writing became painful. The tone grew darker.
**MARCH 8**
I started sleeping at the office more. I didn’t want to go home and see her like that.
It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I just couldn’t face her while I knew I was failing her.
I thought if I looked her in the eyes, she’d she how broken I really was.
How I was failing her by pulling away but I just couldn’t stop myself.
**MARCH 20**
Lacey was relentless. I knew what she was doing. I knew I shouldn’t let her. But it was easier than going home and facing Livi. God, I’m a coward. I was so, so weak.
I froze, rereading that entry, then the ones that followed, documenting the affair in grim, clinical detail.
**APRIL 4**
I never thought I’d cheat. Never thought I’d be that guy.
I’d planned to follow the rules. Never thought I’d need an open marriage.
But it’s like I needed to destroy something just to feel alive.
I didn’t even like Lacey that much. I just hated myself, and being with her made it hurt less. For a few hours, anyway.
I wanted to slam the journal shut, throw it against the wall, but something kept me turning pages.
**APRIL 15**
When I found out Lacey was pregnant, for a minute I thought all our prayers were answered. That I could take a baby home and give Olivia the family we wanted. Deep down, I knew that was ridiculous. That’s why I couldn’t tell Livi right away. I knew it was going to blow up in my face.
**APRIL 20**
When I told Olivia about the baby, I hurt her worse than anyone has ever hurt me, and I still can’t forgive myself. I knew she would leave me but I couldn’t change the past.
**MAY 10**
Therapy is a joke. Or maybe I am. I keep waiting for Dr. Stiles to give up on me, but she keeps saying it’s “a process.” I don’t think I believe her, but I don’t want to quit. Not yet.
There were more entries—so many more—each one a slow, desperate climb out of the pit.
I read about Cam’s guilt, his self-loathing, his attempts to make amends, the nights he stayed up pacing the kitchen, rehearsing apologies he never said out loud.
I read about his dreams, most of them ending in the same nightmare: me leaving, closing the door, and never looking back.
**JULY 9**
Lacey moved away. The baby is gone. It was never mine anyway. And deep down, I think I never wanted it. Not really. I’m relieved she’s gone. At least I don’t have to look at a reminder of my mistakes. It’s bad enough living with them in my mind.
**AUGUST 28**
I think I’m getting better. Not fixed, but better. I still love Olivia. I want to try. I want her to believe I’m capable of love. Real, true love. I want to believe it too.
**SEPTEMBER 10**
Dr. Stiles said to write a letter to my future self if Olivia ever takes me back. So here it is: Don’t fuck this up. Be kind. Be patient. Don’t run from the hard things. Hold her hand when she needs it, and let her go if that’s what’s best. Don’t ever let her think she’s not enough.
I set the journal down, hands trembling. I’d read it all in a single sitting, every last word, even the ones that made me want to disappear into the mattress.
There were tears, of course there were, but it wasn’t just sadness. It was anger, and grief, and relief, and something else—something like hope, so fragile I didn’t dare name it.
Cam came home late, sweat-damp and breathing hard from his run. He stood in the bedroom doorway, saw the journal on my lap, and hesitated. I wiped my face and said, “I read it.”
He nodded, eyes brimming with a panic I recognized from years before. “Are you okay?”
I wanted to laugh, but I was too spent.
Instead, I said, “Thank you. For letting me in.”
He crossed the room, perched on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. “I meant every word,” he said.
I believed him. For the first time, I really did.
He leaned over, brushed a tear from my cheek, then lay down beside me, silent and still, like he was afraid any sudden movement would undo the moment.
I held the journal to my chest and closed my eyes, letting myself grieve for the life we’d lost and hope for the one we might still build.
I cried, quietly, until sleep took me. And when I woke, Cam was still there, holding my hand.
∞∞∞
The next morning was almost offensively normal.
I woke up with a raw throat and puffy eyes, but the air was full of the scent of coffee and the low sound of Cam humming to himself as he padded around the kitchen.
I pulled on a sweatshirt, found my way downstairs, and started the day as if nothing had changed—though, of course, everything had.
He glanced up when I entered, then back at the French press. “You want the first cup?” he asked, as if we were any ordinary couple, and I nodded.
I watched the sun creep across the kitchen table, landing on the stack of bills and mail and, at the very top, the envelope of divorce papers I’d been avoiding. The sight of it felt different now—not like a threat, but like a puzzle piece I no longer needed.
Cam poured the coffee, handed me the mug, and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He looked tired, maybe a little hung over from his late run, but his eyes were clear.
“So,” he said. “Did you… get through it? The journal? The whole thing?”
I sipped, burning my tongue on the first swallow. “Yeah. I read the whole thing.”
He nodded, waiting. There was a long pause, the kind that could turn either way.
I set the mug down, picked up the envelope, and held it between us. For a second, I thought about opening it, reading the lines that used to mean so much. Instead, I crumpled it, tossed it in the trash, and watched as it landed on top of a pizza box and a spent bag of coffee beans.
Cam’s lips twitched. “That’s one way to file paperwork.”
I shrugged. “Seemed efficient.”
He didn’t say anything, just smiled—a small, real smile that reached his eyes.
The silence was lighter this time, almost giddy. I rummaged through the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of butterscotch candies; held one out to him. He took it, then watched as I unwrapped mine and popped it into my mouth.
“Breakfast of champions,” he said.
I grinned, the candy already melting into a honeyed warmth at the back of my throat. He mirrored my expression, eyes shining in the morning light as he deposited his between his lips.
We didn’t say I love you, or promise to never screw up again. We didn’t need to. In the space between words, in the shared sugar and caffeine and the slow, deliberate act of staying, we had already forgiven each other.
He clinked his candy wrapper against mine, as if toasting to a future neither of us could predict.
We stood there, in the ordinary kitchen, in the extraordinary quiet, and just… grinned.
It was enough.