11. Amanda #3
“Why don’t you pick a couple of trays of meat or fish? I’ll do the same.” His eyes are now going over the bone-in cuts. “If you want to get larger quantities to save a buck, we can always repack it at home and freeze some of it.”
His mom did that. I remember spending afternoons with them and helping them wrap huge trays of ground pork into two-person portions. To me, it was fun playing store clerk. To them, it was their reality of stretching each penny.
Daray had tossed a sixty dollar rib-eye into our cart like it was nothing.
Tucked in the bottom of the cart, hidden under “my cheap shit.” Four cuts of grass-fed ribeye. The price tag—bold and unapologetic—flashed up at me.
“Daray,” I said quietly, “That’s like, over fifty dollars. I thought—”
“It’s for the weekend,” he said, not looking at me. “We’re having Keith and his fiancee over, remember?”
I nodded. Of course. People. Image. His brand of generosity—loud and performative when it counted, frugal and controlling when it didn’t.
“Yes,” I countered. “I remember, but—”
He stopped abruptly, causing me to bump into him. “Just because we have to live on cheap shit doesn’t mean our friends need to know. Just get fewer fucking cookies or whatever.”
For “company.” For the right impression. Because fucking Keith comes from money. I remember the flare of heat in my chest. Not anger. Something worse. Shame.
“This okay?” Eric asks, holding up a huge package of boneless thighs and another one with ground pork. “It’s not exactly gourmet, but versatile.”
I nod and show him a tray with four sirloin steaks for fourteen dollars and a package of two pounds of frozen salmon.
He nods, commenting that the steaks were a good find.
It doesn’t sound like he’s being stingy.
More like he’s mindful and aware of his means.
Eric grabs everything to toss it in the cart.
Something catches in my throat. I don’t want gourmet.
I honestly just want this. To be allowed to want and compromise.
Eric zigzags on the way to checkout, grabbing a few things he missed as he explains how he’s read certain things to settle the stomach in the morning, or what’s good for one pregnancy.
Including ginger ale. He asks which brand I like best. I point to a random one. My voice is shaky. “That’s perfect.”
Maybe co-parenting with Eric could be like grocery shopping. Supportive. Not like a constant battle of wills.
When we reach the cashier, I brace myself for the passive-aggressiveness of who will pay. I get flashbacks of Daray, on multiple trips, fumbling through the bags, his credit card still in his wallet. He didn’t even make a move to offer it. He never would.
Back then, I told myself I was just being sensitive. But now I know better. Eric takes no time to put things on the conveyor belt. I used to resent Daray for his scrolling instead of helping.
Eric simply says, “I’ll cover it for now. We’ll talk numbers at home.”
I nod, overwhelmed, because this is what a partnership looks like. Nothing about this feels transactional. This could be raising a child together. Loving someone together. And maybe in loving someone together, there could be healing for us both.
As we take turns putting things in the back of his car, I’m hit by a quiet grief.
An ache for all the times I mistook control for care.
Val would do her poking and prodding thing, and I can see now she was pointing it out to me.
I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know what it meant to be supported in the quiet, steady rhythm of someone just… showing up.
Eric has asked me to give him credit for the growth he’s made over these years. And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve been missing it—the ways Eric has changed. The way he notices, adapts, pays attention.
How single-minded he becomes when something is truly important to him.
And suddenly, it is like a reckoning. He’ll notice things about the baby, too—their patterns, their cries, the way they like to be held. He’ll research the best stroller and obsess over bottle brands. He’ll be patient, kneeling to eye-level. He’ll try like his life is at stake.
The thought blooms inside me, startling and warm. He’s going to be such a good dad.
And for the first time since that ultrasound, there isn’t just excitement and anxiety. There’s a quiet, giddy hope. Because Eric is going to raise my baby.
I reach for his elbow. He shifts to face me immediately, like he’s been waiting for the signal. His warm amber eyes search mine, all concern and calm and something unspoken I don’t want to name.
“Okay,” I say, voice steady this time, full of something that feels dangerously close to trust.
“Okay?” he echoes, confused until it lands. His eyes widen just slightly, realizing this isn’t about the groceries.
“Okay,” I say again. And then I’m in his arms—warm, familiar, safe. I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes.
Eric is not choosing me, though. He’s choosing the baby. And I know that should sting less than it does. That’s enough for now, maybe. Because for once, I’m not alone. And Eric will be everything. Everything but mine.