CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #3
For a few minutes, we just stand there; two people trying to remember how to be on the same team.
Finally, I sigh. “Do you really think I don’t contribute?”
His eyes soften. “No. I think I said something stupid because I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
He shrugs. “Of not being enough. Of failing you. Failing the kids. Every time a bill comes in or the car makes a weird noise, I panic. I start thinking about everything I should be doing better.”
I bite my lip. “So instead of telling me that, you blame me?”
He winces. “Yeah. Because I’m an idiot.”
I want to stay angry. I should stay angry. But the way he says it; quiet, ashamed, knocks the fight out of me.
“I get scared too, you know,” I say after a pause. “Not just about money. About us.”
He looks up sharply. “Us?”
“Yeah.” My voice softens. “I worry that we’re turning into roommates who just happen to share kids.
That we only talk about logistics and schedules and who’s picking up who.
I miss you, Dan. The version of us that used to laugh until we couldn’t breathe.
The us that used to flirt in supermarket aisles and have stupid inside jokes. ”
He swallows hard. “You still make me laugh.”
“Not lately.”
He looks like he’s been punched again. “I didn’t realise I’d stopped trying.”
I take a shaky breath. “You didn’t stop trying. You just got tired. So did I. And maybe we both forgot that love isn’t something that keeps itself running, it needs effort. Energy. And we’ve been pouring all ours into everyone but each other.”
Dan’s eyes glisten. “You’re not wrong.”
“I usually am,” I mutter, trying to smile.
That earns me another small laugh. Then he sets the wine down and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my temple. “You’re right, though. We need to find us again.”
“Easier said than done,” I whisper.
“Maybe. But I’d rather try than lose what we have.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He reaches out, cautiously, and this time I don’t pull away. His hand finds mine, fingers tentative but firm.
The simple contact is enough to undo me. Tears spill over before I can stop them. “I hate that you made me feel like what I do isn’t enough.”
“I hate that I did too,” he says, voice breaking. “Because you do everything, Em. Everything that matters.”
I rest my forehead against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “You can’t say stuff like that when you’re angry. It sticks, you know?”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure it doesn’t stick.”
We stand there like that for a while, holding on, breathing the same air, trying to bridge the gap between words and forgiveness.
Eventually, I pull back, wiping my face with my sleeve. “The kids probably think we’ve run off.”
He smiles weakly. “Maybe they’ve taken over the house by now.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.”
We head into the living room, where Ruby is asleep on the sofa, a bread roll still clutched in her tiny fist. Sophie and Oscar are arguing over the remote, their voices rising and falling like an old, familiar song.
Dan crouches beside Ruby, gently easing the roll from her hand. He looks at her face, completely oblivious to the chaos we just went through and something in him shifts.
“She looks so much like you when she’s asleep,” he says quietly.
I sit down beside him. “Let’s hope she doesn’t have my temper.”
He smirks. “Oh, she definitely does.”
That makes me laugh, and for the first time all evening, it feels real.
When the older two are finally in bed and the house falls quiet, Dan and I collapse onto the sofa. The air between us feels fragile but calmer, like the aftermath of a storm when you can still smell the rain.
He takes my hand again, rubbing circles over my palm. “I know I need to do better.”
“So do I,” I admit. “We both do.”
He nods. “We used to be so good at being a team.”
“We still can be,” I say softly. “We just got lost in the noise.”
He leans his head back, eyes closing. “I don’t want to lose this. You. Any of it.”
“You won’t,” I whisper. “But we need to stop treating each other like punching bags when life gets hard.”
He opens his eyes and meets my gaze. “Deal.”
We sit there in the dim light for a while, saying nothing. The silence now feels different; heavier with truth, but also lighter somehow.
Eventually, he says, “You know, I wasn’t lying about the back rub offer.”
I chuckle. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“Maybe,” he grins, “but you’re smiling again.”
And I am. Somehow, after everything, I am.
I shift closer, resting my head on his shoulder. “You drive me insane sometimes.”
“Mutual,” he says with a smirk. “But you’re still my favourite kind of chaos.”
The words settle in the quiet room. We don’t fix everything that night.
We don’t even pretend to. But as his arm wraps around me and the steady rhythm of his breathing fills the space between us, I realise something important: Marriage isn’t about never breaking; it’s about choosing, over and over, to put the pieces back together.
And tonight, for all our cracks and tired hearts, we choose to try again.