Chapter 3
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed; feet tucked under the hem of the plush white robe the hotel left for us.
The silver gown is draped over the chair in the corner, a glittering reminder of the night that was supposed to celebrate us.
I couldn't bring myself to wear the sleepwear I'd packed, it was lace and silk, black and sheer in all the right places.
I picked it thinking it would make me feel sexy, irresistible, but now it just feels like a joke.
I feel tired. Stripped. The robe is safer. Softer. Less of a lie.
Aiden’s lying on the sofa in nothing but his sleep shorts, his toned chest rising and falling in the dim light of the room.
I say I don’t have time for the gym, because I don’t, but he does.
He always has. The body of a man who never had to choose between an hour of cardio and helping the kids with homework, or between cooking dinner and folding laundry. A body built from freedom.
When the boys were little, Aiden was practically a weekend dad.
And even that felt generous. They’d come to me with every scraped knee, every nightmare, every permission slip and sick day.
That didn’t change when we moved in together for good.
I was still the default parent. He got to keep his gym.
His friends. His hobbies. I barely held onto my friendship with Quinn, juggling the kids, my job, the mental load of being everything to everyone, trying to be some impossible version of Supermom.
All the while, apparently, my husband was out screwing strippers.
I blink, my throat tightening. The silence in the room starts to feel like a scream.
“Was she better?” I ask suddenly, my voice low but sharp, like glass against skin.
He sits up, moves to swing his legs off the sofa like he’s about to come to me, but I shake my head. Don’t. Just stay there. Separate. Far.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustrated and wrecked. “It wasn’t about her. It was about me. My insecurities. My fear. You have no idea how much I regretted it.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Regret doesn’t erase what you did, Aiden. You still did it.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.
“I was stupid. I was drunk and scared, and I thought, I don’t know.
That I’d already ruined things by pushing you away.
That I wasn’t good enough for you, for the life we had.
The guys pushed me, and I let them. I made the worst mistake of my life. ”
I look down at my bare knees, then at the wedding ring on my finger, and twisting it.
“Do you think I wasn’t curious?” I ask, voice rising slightly.
“That I didn’t wonder what it would be like to go on an actual date without kids and bills and baggage?
To sit across from someone who doesn’t know me as ‘the mom’ or ‘the scheduler’ or ‘the one who handles everything’? ”
His head lifts, eyes finding mine, but I don’t look away.
“You think men didn’t hit on me?” I say, louder now. “At work? At the grocery store? In the goddamn parking garage? But I said no. Every time. Not because I wasn’t tempted, not because I didn’t want to remember what it felt like to be seen, really seen, but because I made a promise.”
Aiden stands slowly, tension radiating off of him. “So did I.”
“Then you broke it,” I say, final and unforgiving. “You broke it before we even stood at that altar.”
He nods, like he knows what he did.
I wipe under my eye before a tear gets the chance to fall. “I used to think the scariest thing that could happen was losing you. But now? Now I think the scariest thing is knowing I never really had you in the first place.”
His face crumples, the words hitting something soft and sore inside him. “You have me,” he says, stepping closer again. “All of me. I was just a kid who made a mistake.”
I scoff, pushing myself to stand. “You were twenty-four, Aiden. Twenty-four. You had a job, a car, a future. That’s not a kid.”
“I wasn’t ready,” he says, and it sounds weak even to him. “I didn’t know how to handle all of it. I got scared. That night. God, that night, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
I stare at him, my chest hollow and tight. “You know how old I was when I had Jackson?”
His mouth opens, but I don’t give him the chance.
“Eighteen,” I say. “I was a teenager. I had no future. No plan. My parents was three states away. And you…” I swallow, sharp. “You turned off your phone.”
“I apologized for that,” he says, softer now.
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “No, Aiden. You said you were sorry your phone was off. That you were taking an exam, That’s not an apology. That’s an excuse. Just like ‘I was drunk.’ Just like ‘The guys made me.’ Just like every other way you’ve managed to avoid looking at the mess you made.”
He runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did. You missed it, Aiden. You missed the birth of your first son.” I look at him hard, make sure he can’t look away.
“And then you missed every milestone after that. His first words, first steps, first fever, first nightmare. You know who was there? Me. Always me. Because I didn’t have the luxury of leaving for college or strip clubs apparently. ”
He’s quiet, jaw clenched. I know he wants to say something, defend himself, rationalize, reach for another maybe, it-wasn’t-so-bad thought. But he doesn’t.
“I forgave you for so much already,” I whisper. “I forgave you for not showing up when I needed you most. I forgave you for being part-time in a full-time life. But I don’t think I forgive this. You don’t just get to say sorry and pretend that the pain it caused didn’t settle into my bones.”
Aiden shifts, arms crossed like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t miss Jack’s first steps,” he says, weakly. “You told me he hadn’t walked yet.”
I laugh, not because it’s funny but because the absurdity of that denial is almost poetic.
“He walked three days before you came home,” I say evenly.
“In the hallway. Wearing his ridiculous dinosaur onesie with the long sleeves. I caught him, and I couldn’t even celebrate it, because it meant he was growing up and his father wasn’t there to see it. ”
Aiden’s lips part, but I press on.
“I lied, Aiden. I told you it hadn’t happened yet because I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I did that a lot, you know. Lied. Smiled through birthdays you missed. Nodded along when you said college was crazy again. Protected your feelings like they were more fragile than mine.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold under the robe.
“‘No, honey, Jack just took his first steps today. You’re right on time.’ ‘No, it doesn’t bother me that you can’t make it back for my birthday, we’ll celebrate later.’ ‘No, it’s not a big deal that I planned the whole wedding alone, I wanted to anyway.’”
He moves toward me again, but I raise a hand to stop him.
“I even convinced myself it didn’t matter that you only proposed because I was pregnant again.
Told myself love didn’t have to look like the movies, that obligation could change into something real.
” I shake my head, blinking fast. “But this? What you did with her? I can’t lie about that.
I won’t. You’re not forgiven. Not for this. ”
“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Please, Kate. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just… just tell me how to fix this.”
He’s crying now, real tears, not the quiet ones either. They stream down his face. Maybe this is the first time he’s allowed himself to look at the wreckage instead of pretending everything will be okay.
I don’t move.
“Can you go back in time?” I ask. My voice doesn’t tremble like his. It’s quiet. Controlled, but barely. “Can you undo that night? Can you be the man I needed then, instead of the one who made it all harder?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Can you walk into that delivery room with flowers instead of excuses? Can you stay up with me when the baby won’t sleep instead of turning off your phone so you can sleep through it? Can you go back and not follow that woman?”
His mouth opens, but no words come. Just more tears. He nods like a child being scolded, not really understanding the lesson but wanting the comfort back.
“I wanted to believe you were different. That even if we started off young and messy, we could grow into something beautiful. Something safe. But now I look at you, and I don’t know what we are.”
“I’m your husband,” he says. “I love you.”
“You say that,” I whisper. “You said it while you were partying your nights away. While I was home with our baby. While I was eating plain crackers and pumping milk at 2 a.m. and feeling disgusting and exhausted and lonely. You said you loved me.”
“I did. I do.”
“Then why wasn’t I enough?”
He walks to the edge of the bed, kneels down so we’re eye level.
His eyes are red, face blotchy. “You were. You are . That’s what kills me.
It wasn’t about you . It was never about her .
It was about me being terrified. I didn’t think I deserved any of it, you, Jack, the life we were building.
I panicked. I spiralled. And I’ve regretted it every day since. ”
“You got to regret it in silence,” I say. “You got to lock it away while I looked at you like you were everything. Do you know how humiliating this is?”
He reaches for my hand, but I pull it back.
“I used to look at you like I worshipped you,” I whisper.
“Like the sun rose just to give you light to walk in. You’d show up with takeout after working late and I’d act like it was a grand romantic gesture.
I thought your minimum effort meant you were trying.
I thought a sleepy ‘how was your day’ counted as love.
I filled in all the blanks for you. And now I wonder if you even noticed. ”
His mouth opens, maybe to deny it, maybe to apologize again, but I keep going.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I say, slower this time, each word pressing against the silence like a bruise. “But it’s not forgiveness. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”
He nods, slowly. Broken. Silent.
And I sit there, wrapped in a robe that suddenly feels too thin, too fragile for a body carrying this much ache, next to a man I once believed would never break my heart. Not like this.
But he did.
And the part that hurts most is knowing I still want to believe he didn’t.