Saturday, June 24th #4
My dad shifts beside me and pulls me into his side, his arm coming around my shoulders. The pressure of his body steadies me.
“Oh, honey,” Ashley says, her voice warm and soft.
Cormac leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “Let me guess,” he says. “You have dreams where you hurt her. You worry constantly about what kind of father you’ll be. You try to keep it all bottled up, thinking that maybe if you say nothing, feel nothing, it won’t come true.”
I nod.
“You probably even thought about breaking things off with her to protect her.”
I glance at him. “I did. I broke up with her,” I say, my voice small.
Cormac offers a knowing, rueful smile. “I did the same thing. I kept telling Ashley she deserved better. That I wasn’t good enough. But I kept talking to her. I went to therapy for years. And eventually, I made a choice.”
He pauses, lets the words settle.
“I made the choice that I wouldn’t be like my father. I knew I loved Ashley more than anything. And when Mark came into the world, I loved him even more. The thought of hurting either of them made me sick. And that’s how I knew—I wasn’t capable of it. I wasn’t him.”
Mark speaks up then, sudden and sure. “My dad has never put a hand me.” His voice is clear. Strong. “Well, that’s not true,” he adds quickly, grinning. “He’s a hugger. Constantly hugging me.”
Ashley laughs softly.
“He coached my T-ball team. My little league team. He never missed a single game, even though he embarrassed the hell out of me cheering. Took me to the park every weekend. Or let me hang out in the shop until I was old enough to help. He was always there. Always.”
Mark looks directly at me.
“He still calls me like a million times a day. And he never lets me forget how much he loves me. Even when I screw up—and I screw up a lot—he never even yells.”
I swallow thickly, blinking hard.
“I’m… Honestly, this helps a lot,” I say.
My dad glances at Cormac. “A few months ago, Ronan decided he wanted to find you. No one even knew if you were alive, but he was determined.”
“Why?” Mark asks.
I take a deep breath. “Because I needed to know if it was possible to change things,” I say, my voice low, cracking. “I needed to know if someone like me could break the cycle. I thought… maybe if you escaped it, if you turned it all around, then maybe I could, too.”
Cormac’s expression shifts, pained but deeply understanding.
“Ronan,” he says gently, “you’re the one who gets to decide what kind of man you’ll be. That decision isn’t made for you.”
He pauses, steadying himself.
“I know what it’s like to feel powerless. I felt that way for most of my childhood. No control over anything, not even my own body. If I spoke up, if I said the wrong thing, it meant pain. So I kept it all inside. For years.”
Ashley’s fingers tighten slightly around his.
“A lot of the time after the abuse ends,” he continues, “you’re left trying to figure out who you are without it. Without the fear, the violence, the shame. It’s hard. It’s confusing. For a long time I thought maybe I was just broken. That maybe the only thing I’d ever be was what he made me.”
He takes a breath.
“But eventually I understood that what happened to me isn’t who I am. It’s not my identity. I’m more than his son. I’m more than the bruises and broken bones. I’m not my father.”
Ashley leans her head against his shoulder, and Cormac’s voice softens.
“I’m Mac Johnson. I’m Ashley’s husband. Mark’s dad. I’ve built a life for myself that has nothing to do with him. I have my own business, my own home, my own family. And all of that… I chose it. I made that life for myself.”
He looks over at me. “Everything before I left happened to me. But everything after? I made it happen. And it’s a damn good life.”
Ashley smiles up at him, full of quiet pride.
“How far along is your girlfriend?” she asks me gently.
“A little over three months,” I say.
She nods, still smiling. “How long have you been together?”
“Just over two years,” I say. “It wasn’t… really planned.”
Cormac lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah, it rarely is when you’re young. It wasn’t planned for Ashley and me, either. We had Mark when we were twenty-one.”
He glances between me and Mark. “Actually, Ronan, when’s your birthday?”
“June second,” I say.
“My birthday’s May twenty-fourth,” Mark chimes in, grinning. “I just turned nineteen, too.”
“Crazy to think Rica had her first baby at sixteen,” Cormac murmurs, his voice heavy.
“It wasn’t exactly planned by us, either,” my dad says with a sheepish smile.
“I bet,” Cormac says dryly. “I bet my father lost his shit.”
“He did,” my dad says. “Kicked her out.”
There’s a moment of silence. Something shifts in Cormac’s expression—something tentative and raw.
“I think… I think I should go see my sister sometime,” he says quietly.
Ashley nods, her hand brushing gently over his arm.
“Frank,” Cormac says, turning toward my dad. “Do you happen to know which prison she’s in…?” But his voice fades, the question unraveling halfway through. Just saying the words seems to undo him.
My dad answers softly and writes down the name and address. While he does, the rest of us sit in silence. Ashley’s fingers gently rub Cormac’s back. Mark stares at the floor. I watch Cormac fold the paper in half, like it might tear if he isn’t careful.
“Are you guys driving back to New York tonight?” he asks, finally breaking the quiet.
“No,” my dad says. “We’re staying at a motel overnight. Heading back in the morning. It’s a bit of a drive.”
Cormac nods slowly. Then, almost shyly, “Why don’t we all grab some dinner?”
He glances at Ashley, who smiles without hesitation.
“We could check out that seafood place I mentioned earlier,” he says, his eyes landing on me now, soft and open.
My dad shifts a little, his voice polite. “We’d hate to inconvenience you.”
“Not at all,” Ashley says, waving him off with a warm grin. “After all, you’re family.”
Cat
I’ve been an anxious, restless mess all day.
From the moment I woke up, my chest has felt tight with nerves, my thoughts looping endlessly, obsessively.
I’ve spent the whole day hoping, wishing, praying that Ronan would find what he’s been looking for—peace, answers, maybe even a sliver of hope.
Something. Anything to lighten the weight he’s been carrying for so long.
I know today is going to change things. Hopefully for the better.
Shane’s right—Ronan needs a win. Desperately.
And I’ve been clinging to that thought all day, trying to keep myself distracted.
I haven’t texted or called him once, though I’ve wanted to.
My fingers have itched to dial his number, my hand constantly reaching for my phone to check for missed calls or messages.
I’ve tried to give him space—to let him do this on his terms—but the longer the silence stretches, the more I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. By the time nine o’clock rolls around, I’m practically vibrating with anxiety.
Finally, I give in and call Shane. He answers on the first ring.
“Have you heard from him?” I ask, skipping the greeting.
“Nope. I was hoping you had,” Shane says, his voice tight.
“What does that mean?” I ask, bracing myself for the worst.
“It means nothing,” he says. “They might still be talking, or maybe they’re just decompressing. Try not to freak out.”
“Excellent advice,” I say sarcastically.
“I’ve been known to offer that from time to time,” he jokes, and I smile despite myself.
“Uh-huh. And are you taking your own advice?”
“Definitely not.”
“Ugh, this is killing me,” I groan.
“Yeah, me too, but—”
“Shane, it’s Ran,” I say as another call comes through. “He’s calling me. I’ll call you back.” I hang up without waiting for a reply.
“Hey, baby,” Ronan says the moment I pick up, his voice velvety and warm.
I smile instantly. “Hi,” I breathe, curling up on the bed, my hand absently rubbing my stomach.
“How are you two?” he asks gently.
My heart stutters.
You two.
Something about the way he says it—soft and sure and already folded into this new future we’re building—makes my heart expand in my chest. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. It’s not just me he’s asking about, it’s us. Me and this little person growing inside me. His child. Our baby.
I blink hard, my throat tightening. This is the version of Ronan I always believed was in there, even when he couldn’t see it himself—the protective, gentle, loving boy… man who talks to his unborn baby without even realizing he’s doing it. The man who’s already showing up.
It makes something in me melt. God, I love him.
I press my palm more firmly over my stomach, my smile deepening.
“We’re good,” I say, voice soft with emotion. “We’re resting.”
“Good. How was your day?”
“Busy. I took Sammy to get mani-pedis—she’s a diva, obviously—and then hung out with Tori, Vada, and Summer for a bit.” I pause. “But more importantly… how was your day? How are you?”
“I’m okay,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can feel something different in his voice. Calmer. Less guarded.
“Did you see him?”
“Yeah. I actually talked to him. For a long time.”
My breath catches. “And?”
“It went better than I could’ve hoped,” he says, and I feel the relief wash through me like a tide.
“Yeah? Are you okay talking about it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he tells me everything.
About the drive, the wait, the hesitation.
About seeing Cormac. About the stories, the hurt, the history.
I listen—fully, completely, the way I always try to.
And when he repeats the words Cormac told him—that he gets to choose the kind of man he becomes—I feel something soften in my chest.
“So, how do you feel now?” I ask, voice low.
“Lighter,” he says, and I can hear the honesty in it. “And hopeful. And a lot less stressed.”
“God, Ran, I’m so glad,” I exhale. “You needed this.”
“I did.” A pause. “Baby… I want to be good to you. And our baby.”
My heart gives a little flutter. “Sweet boy,” I say, voice warm. “You are good to me. You always have been. And you’re going to be amazing to our baby. I know it.”
“When are you heading home tomorrow?”
“Probably late morning. I think I’ll stop by Murphy’s when we get back, but I want to see you. Will you come by in the evening? I need to recharge my battery.”
“Your battery?” I tease.
“Yeah. You recharge my emotional battery, baby. Ever since I met you. When I’m not around you for too long, I can feel it draining.”
“Really?”
“Really. Is that weird?”
“No,” I whisper, smiling so hard it hurts. “I love it.”
Hope blooms in my chest. It’s tentative, but real. I want to hold onto it, to let it fill me completely. But hope has hurt before. Hope has made promises it couldn’t keep. So I let it in gently, carefully… like something wild that might run if I move too fast.