Chapter 14
Luna
Lily waits a second, then exhales. “Right,” she says, shifting into that mode of hers. “I’m on your side. Always. That’s not changing. He has been a little shit, and I want to kick him in his tiny balls. But I’m going to say a few things you may not like.”
I don’t respond, but she takes my silence as permission.
“You’re in one of the highest-risk periods for relationship strain,” she says “Postpartum, especially with what you went through, is brutal. There’s actual data on this. Around two-thirds of couples report a drop in relationship satisfaction after their first child. It’s not a small dip.”
I frown slightly. “So, we’re just … statistics now?”
“No,” she says calmly. “But it means this didn’t come out of nowhere.
A lot of couples experience it. Not as extreme as what you went through, but still …
” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
“When one partner is struggling, like you were, it creates emotional distance. Mind you, this is not intentional. Not your fault. But it happens, and the other partner … feels it.”
I stiffen slightly, but she continues before I can interrupt.
“And before you snap at me, this is not me excusing him,” she says. “I’m explaining something we see very often.”
I look away, but she ignores it and continues anyway.
“Infidelity, especially emotional, rarely starts with sex. It starts with emotional dissatisfaction. Stress. Poor communication. Big life changes. Like … having a baby.” She gives me a look. “And men, especially, are terrible at dealing with that. No joke that we are the stronger sex.”
I glance at her.
“Women tend to have multiple emotional outlets,” she says.
“Friends like me. Family. People they can talk to. Men? Not so much. Most of them rely on one person—their partner. How do I put this? You and me? We can talk about sex and how good it was. We can use words like cock and vagina and laugh about it. Can you imagine men talking like that? Isaac talking like that to a friend? Not a chance. You are his person. So, when your connection weakens, even temporarily, he will try to substitute.”
I don’t want to hear this.
“Substitute?” I whisper.
She nods. “Not consciously or maliciously, but yes. They reach for something that feels familiar, low-pressure, emotionally available. Someone who doesn’t require them to deal with their failures at home.”
I swallow.
“Chloe,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Lily says simply. “She made herself approachable, and he slipped into old habits. The Chloe who betrayed him probably feels distant. Isaac may feel like she is the friend he once had. It is a slippery slope, that.”
Silence stretches between us as I try to objectively chew on that.
“He asked me about therapy,” she suddenly says.
I look at her sharply. “When?”
“A couple of days ago,” she says. “He didn’t want to go through the NHS route because of the waiting times. I told him to check through his employer. He’s got private insurance, hasn’t he? It’ll be quicker.”
I blink.
“He didn’t tell me that.”
“No,” she says. “Because you two are currently … not talking properly.”
Fair.
She sits back slightly.
“Listen,” she says, softer now. “None of this means you have to forgive him. What he did crossed a boundary. A massive one. And you’re allowed to be angry and betrayed about that.”
“Thank you very much,” I gripe.
“But,” she continues, holding my gaze, “you both have to be adults about this because there is a child in the middle of it now. And whether you stay together or not, that doesn’t change.”
I look down at my hands, at the faint marks where I had dug my nails into my palms while he was tearing me apart inside.
“What are you saying?” I ask finally.
“I’m saying,” Lily replies, softer now, “that this didn’t come out of nowhere.
It doesn’t make it okay. But it makes it understandable.
And if you want to move forward, whatever that looks like, you need to decide whether you’re willing to understand it.
I have given you a lot to think about. Let’s leave that for a bit,” she said.
“There is someone who wants to see you. Isaac said he is coming this evening.”
“Who?” I ask. But she refuses to budge. She says it’s a surprise.
***
“Luna …”
I blink.
And there he is.
Colin. He’s in jeans and a jacket, hair still doing that thing where it looks like he’s run his hands through it too many times, but he’s older now. There are lines around his eyes that weren’t there before.
He looks … like he is not sure if he should come in.
“Hey,” he says softly.
For a second, I just stare at him. And then something in my chest feels like it is cracking wide. Isaac watches silently from the doorway, his eyes on me like a tender caress.
“You came.”
“’Course I did.” He tries to grin, but it is a sad one. “Had to come meet my goddaughter, didn’t I?”
His eyes flick to the crib, and he steps closer, peering in.
“Bloody hell,” he murmurs. “She’s tiny.”
I smile.
“You should have seen her when she was born.”
He watches her for a moment, a wistful softness settling over his face.
Then he straightens and looks at me.
“Amelie and I are going to go for a walk,” says Isaac. “I will let you both talk.”
He carefully takes his daughter, his heart in his eyes. His gaze passes over me, as if to check that I am alright before he walks off with our girl. The door slides shut behind him.
My eyes slide back to catch Colin watching me with an expression like he’s putting pieces together, like he’s recognising something he’s seen before.
“Want to tell me what happened?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head immediately.
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t believe me. Of course he knows.
“Luna.”
That tone. The one that says don’t lie to me. I look away.
“I just … had a bad few days.”
“Yeah,” he says gently. “You look like you’ve had a bad few days.”
Something in me snaps.
“I could have killed her.”
The words I have never voiced come tumbling out before I can stop them.
They are ugly, and they are tearing into me. I feel his attention, but he doesn’t interrupt.
So, I keep going. Because once it starts, it doesn’t stop.
“I never thought—” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. “I never thought I would be someone who did something like that, you know?”
My hands start to shake. I press them harder into my lap.
“I put her in danger,” I whisper. “My own child. I—” My breath stutters. “I don’t even remember it properly. I just—there was this … fog. And I thought—” I squeeze my eyes tight. “I remember wondering if she’d be better off without me.”
The words feel like poison, like rot that I’ve been carrying inside me.
“How am I supposed to trust myself with her now?” I ask, voice rising despite myself. “How am I supposed to look at her and not think that I could—” My voice breaks. “I failed her.”
Silence fills the room, as if to complement my exhaustion. I expect him to argue, to tell me I’m wrong, but he doesn’t.
He just … sits here and listens.
So, I keep going, because I can’t stop.
“I didn’t even feel like her mother half the time,” I say, the words tumbling over each other now. “I looked at her, and I knew I should feel something—love, instinct, something—but it was like there was this wall, and I couldn’t get through it, and—”
My chest tightens.
“I’m scared of myself, Colin. I feel fine now. But what happens when I get home?” That’s the truth. “I’m scared I’ll hurt her. Or worse, neglect her again.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t deserve her.”
The silence stretches. And then—
“Do you remember the kitchen?”
I blink.
What?
I look up at him.
He’s watching me steadily.
“The endless dishes,” he says. “We nearly drowned in soap.”
A broken sound escapes me.
“That’s not—”
“You remember what you did when you saw my scars?”
How could I forget? He doesn’t look away.
“I told you to leave it,” he continues quietly. “I told you to drop it.”
“You didn’t,” he continues. “You grabbed me, and you didn’t let go.” His voice softens. “You made me stay. You made me get help.”
My vision blurs.
“Do you know what I had planned that day?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly.
“A rope in the back of my car,” he says plainly. “Or maybe just cutting deeper this time. Not … halfway like before.”
“Colin—”
“I’d already decided,” he says, not letting me interrupt. “I just needed to get home.” His eyes hold mine. “And then you stopped me.”
My throat closes, thinking about how chance saved his life.
“You didn’t fix everything in that moment,” he says, his eyes far off. “It wasn’t some miracle. I still needed medication. Therapy. Months of dragging myself out of that hole.” He shrugs slightly. “But you were the thing that made me pause and wonder if there was a better way.”
My eyes burn.
“You held me together long enough for me to get help. You were strong enough to hold me together. You saved my life.”
My voice comes out small. “I don’t feel strong now.”
He huffs softly. “Yeah. No one ever does when they’re in it.”
I shake my head. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says, firm now, his hands tight over mine. “You just can’t see it right now because you are too close. But you will.”
I look away. He pulls the chair a little closer and pulls my hands into his.
“Everyone has bad days, Luna,” he says. “You’ve had a bad few weeks.”
A shaky breath leaves me.
“Things are already looking up,” he adds quietly.
I let out a humourless laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s kind of the problem with your brain when it goes a bit sideways. It lies.”
I glance at him. He shrugs.
“I know a bit about this stuff now,” he says.
“I attended this therapy group. There was this woman. PhD in astrophysics. A genius. Organised like a general.” He pauses.
“She had postnatal depression after her first baby. She completely fell apart. She couldn’t get out of bed some days,” he continues.
“Thought she was a danger to her kid. Thought she was broken.”
My chest tightens.
“She wasn’t,” he says simply. “She was ill. I think …” He hesitates. “I think we’re all just human. And we all make mistakes.”
I stare at the floor.
“You have to forgive yourself for what you did when your mind was playing tricks on you. You need to let it go and move forward. You asked me to do that and now I am asking you to give yourself the same grace.” he adds.
My eyes feel gritty with tears but my shoulders don’t feel as heavy with guilt.
“Isaac called me. He loves you, despite what a fool he has been. Yes, he told me, and he let me tear him a new one,” Colin says. “He asked me to come. He does not trust me around you. The guy is jealous as hell, but he felt you needed me. So, he asked me to come.”
Something twists in my chest.
“He loves you,” Colin says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But whether you want to continue walking this path with him is up to you.”
A weak, broken laugh escapes me.
He smiles faintly. “Man looks like death warmed over. I am petty enough to feel he deserves it.”
I look away. We are nowhere near the forgiveness zone.
“Let me tell you what happened with my last boyfriend. I didn’t communicate,” Colin says gently. “He didn’t communicate. I blamed him. He felt worse and shut down. I got angrier …” He shrugs. “It just kept going. This was my cycle on repeat.”
I swallow.
“It might cost you your pride to talk it out,” he says. “But maybe decide if Isaac’s worth it.” A pause. “Because from where I’m standing?” He nods towards the door. “That man would burn himself to the ground for you. My guy back then … Let’s just say he was not worth it.”
Silence fills the space between us.
I don’t have an answer.