16. Lucas
— ? —
Lucas
I can’t sleep.
The bed is too big. Too empty. I keep reaching for her in the middle of the night, my hand searching across cold sheets for a body that isn’t there.
She’s been gone for days now. Or maybe longer - I’ve lost track.
Time has become meaningless, measured only in the spaces where she used to be.
The dent in the pillow on her side. The empty hook where her robe used to hang.
The silence at breakfast, at dinner, in all the moments where her voice used to fill the room.
I should call a lawyer. That’s what she said - find representation, prepare for the battle ahead. Dario mentioned someone, a name I wrote down somewhere and haven’t looked at since. The responsible thing to do. The adult thing.
But every time I reach for my phone, I can’t make myself dial.
Calling a lawyer means giving up. It means admitting that everything we built - years of marriage, of partnership, of loving her - has collapsed into paperwork and asset division.
Haven’t I already given up, though?
The question surfaces uninvited, and I don’t have an answer.
I think about the conversation with Dario. The words I used. Paranoid. Suspicious. Like living with a stranger. I meant them when I said them. I thought I was venting, processing, trying to understand why the woman I married had become someone I couldn’t reach.
But she was listening. Standing in the hallway, hearing every word, and I painted her as the problem while I was the one-
The one what?
The one who danced with another woman at her gala. The one who praised Aimie on television while my wife watched alone. The one who walked out of our kitchen when she begged me to choose.
Choose me.
Such a simple request. Such an obvious answer. And I couldn’t give it to her.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and I think about all the ways I failed her.
The late nights I justified as necessary.
The conversations I cut short because I was tired.
The hundreds of small moments where I could have reached for her and didn’t, could have said I love you and didn’t, could have been present and wasn’t.
When did I stop seeing her? When did she become furniture in my life instead of the foundation of it?
The tears come before I can stop them. I lie there in our bed - my bed now, I suppose - and I cry like I haven’t cried since my mother died. Great, shaking sobs that I have to muffle against the pillow so no one hears.
You called her paranoid.
You let another woman take her place.
You walked away when she needed you most.
The litany of failures plays on repeat, each one a knife between my ribs.
A knock on the door.
“Daddy?”
I wipe my face quickly, but not quickly enough. Allana stands in the doorway in her pink pajamas, her stuffed horse clutched to her chest. The hallway light catches the dampness on my cheeks, and her face crumples with worry.
“Baby, what are you doing up?”
“I can’t sleep.” She climbs onto the bed without waiting for an invitation, curling against my side like she used to do when she was smaller. “I miss Mommy. When is she coming back?”
The question lands like a blow.
“I don’t know, sweetheart.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “But soon. I hope.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her small body warm against mine. Then: “Were you crying?”
I consider lying. Decide not to.
“Yes. I was.”
“Why?” She tilts her head up to look at me. “Do you miss Mommy too?”
The simplicity of the question cracks something open in my chest.
“Yes, baby.” My voice breaks. “I miss her. I miss her more than I ever imagined I could.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
I pull her closer, pressing my lips to the top of her head. She smells like strawberry shampoo, and for a moment, I’m transported back to when she was a newborn - this tiny, perfect creature who looked at me with complete trust, who needed me to be good and strong and worthy.
I’m not sure I’ve been any of those things lately.
“Because Daddy hasn’t been the best husband to Mommy.” The words hurt to say, but Allana deserves honesty. As much of it as a five-year-old can understand. “And she needed some time away to feel better.”
Her brow furrows and her fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt.
“Can you say sorry?”
So simple. So obvious. Why does it feel so impossible?
“I’m going to try, baby.” I hold her tighter. “I’m going to try.”
She nods, satisfied with this answer, and burrows closer. Her breathing starts to slow, evening out into the rhythm of approaching sleep.
I lie there in the dark, my daughter in my arms, and I think about apologies.
I’ve said I’m sorry a thousand times in my life. For small things, big things, things I meant and things I didn’t. But this - apologizing to Delilah, really apologizing, in a way that matters - feels different. Heavier.
Because it can’t just be words. Words are what got me here. Pretty promises that I didn’t follow through on, vows I meant at the time but forgot to keep, declarations of love that I let fade into silence.
If I’m going to apologize, I have to mean it. And meaning it means changing. Becoming someone worthy of her trust again.
I don’t know if I can do that.
But for Allana - for the family we built - I have to try.
Allana’s breathing has settled into the deep, even rhythm of sleep. I shift carefully, trying not to wake her, and stare at the ceiling.
The room is full of ghosts. Delilah laughing at something I said, years ago. Delilah sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair before bed. Delilah reaching for me in the dark, her hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining without either of us having to think about it.
I miss her. God, I miss her.
And I’m the one who drove her away.
The night stretches on, endless and dark. Allana sleeps beside me, peaceful and trusting, unaware of the wreckage her parents are standing in. I watch her breathe and I make promises - to her, to myself, to the woman in the cottage who probably can’t hear me.
I’ll fix this.
I don’t know how yet, but I’ll fix this.
I have to.
The first gray light of dawn is touching the window before I finally close my eyes.
I don’t sleep. Not really. But for the first time since Delilah left, I feel something other than despair.
I feel the faint, flickering edge of determination.
And tomorrow, I’m going to figure out how to use it.