Chapter 21
Mason- A Week and a Half Later
The house is quiet except for the subtle hum of the bathroom fan and Megan’s breathing beside me.
We’ve been talking about this morning for the last two weeks. Counting it down and having a feeling this is it. She’s going to be pregnant.
“How long’s it been?” I ask.
“Two minutes,” she says with a shaky sigh.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed. My heart’s beating quicker than I thought it would be.
“Kinda feels like waiting for a test grade you just guessed on.”
She laughs. “Well, I studied really hard.”
“I know you did,” I say, smiling.
Her phone timer rings. She sucks in a breath and I straighten, my pulse jumping a little as she reaches for the test.
She hesitates, eyes on mine. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
She flips it over and I know what it says before I can read it myself. The way her shoulders fall…I know it’s a no.
“It’s negative.”
The way she says it… It’s not angry, not even surprised, just…defeated.
She sets it down gently, like maybe if she’s careful enough, it’ll change its mind.
I reach for her hand, grabbing it and pulling her back toward me. “Hey.”
“I really thought—”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around her and keep her close.
She lets out a deep breath first then melts against me, burying her face in my chest. Crying ensues and my heart aches.
“It’s only the second time. We just have to be patient.”
“I know.” Her voice is barely there. “I just thought it’d happen if I knew when and—”
“It’s gonna happen when it’s supposed to. God’s timing, remember?”
She nods, but her lips tremble anyway. “It’s just hard not to feel like we’re doing something wrong.”
“We’re not.” I shake my head. “Trust me.” I laugh and she even smiles.
Her eyes meet mine, full of heartbreak, which wrecks me more than she’ll ever know.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this to myself every month. Maybe I don’t test. Maybe we just—”
“Wait until you get fat?”
“Mason!” She belts a laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
“That or maybe I’ll get sick, I don’t know.”
“Whatever you need,” I say. “If that’s what feels right, we’ll do that.”
We stand there for another minute before I kiss her forehead. “God’s still good. He’s got us,” I remind her.
* * *
Work was slow today, slower than usual, which, honestly, was fine. I texted Megan more than I normally do, just checking in here and there. She seemed good. Normal. Light. And I held onto that the rest of the afternoon.
I get home before her, like I figured I would. She had a handful of parent–teacher conferences. So I start dinner like we planned—pork chops in the pan, heat low, butter and oil simmering beneath them.
The front door opens and closes and she walks in looking…worn out. Shoulders slumped, eyes tired, the kind of tired you don’t fix with sleep.
“Hey,” I call over my shoulder. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, kicking off her shoes. The sound of them hitting the mat feels heavier than usual.
I glance back at her. “You okay?”
She steps into the kitchen, setting her bag on the counter with a little huff. “Someone passed me when I turned at Green Mill Road. I was doing fifty and they passed me.”
I let out a small laugh. “Yeah? Must’ve had places to be.”
She doesn’t laugh with me. “I just…I don’t get it. They don’t know who I am, or what I’m dealing with. It’s rude.”
“You could say the same thing about them,” I offer gently, but she doesn’t respond.
I step away from the stove, actually taking her in this time. The way her eyes are dim, the way her jaw trembles like she’s trying not to cry over something that isn’t really a big deal.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Don’t let it get to you.”
“But I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” she says, voice thinning out. “I was driving the speed limit. Actually, I was going over the speed limit, and—”
“Sweetheart.” I keep my tone kind, a soft line through the chaos of her thoughts. She looks at me, eyes still dim and frustrated. “They’re not worth your time,” I say.
She sighs, turning toward the sink. “I know, but it just bugs me.”
I go back to the stove, lower the heat, toss another chunk of butter in the pan before covering it.
The smell fills the kitchen. My thoughts start to race that Megan’s overly sensitive right now.
I’m scared to make it worse by saying anything else regarding the situation, so I go for the classic change of subject.
“You want rice with this or pasta?” I ask.
“Neither.” She opens the fridge. “I’ll just have a salad.”
“Oh. Okay.” I watch her pull out the lettuce, the salad dressing. Suddenly the act of changing the subject seems to not be helping, maybe even making it worse.
I walk over to her at the island and rub my palm across the small of her back, slow yet firm. “I love you,” I murmur, praying it gives her something to lean into.
A small smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Love you too.” She looks up at me then. “I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow. Promise.”
“It’s all good.” I kiss her cheek before heading back to the pork chops, giving her space but staying close enough that she knows I’m still here if she wants to talk about it.
* * *
Sunday at the big house always smells the same somehow. Butter, bread, meat, something sweet cooling for later.
Addison and Wesley file in last, cheeks pink from the wind, hands intertwined, Addison smiling about who knows what. Wesley’s hat is on backwards, which is odd for Sunday dinner, but whatever.
We’re all packed around the table, elbows tucked in, chairs jammed tight, kids wedged between parents. It’s loud in that way that feels comfortable.
Dad clears his throat and lifts his hands. “Alright, let’s pray.”
Megan touches my knee under the table and smiles. I squeeze her hand once and think about how challenging this week was.
“Lord, we thank You for this food, for health, for work, for rest. Thank You for this family and for every chair filled. We ask for Your peace over our house and Your joy over our children and grandchildren. In Jesus’ name…”
A chorus of amens rolls around the table, followed by the usual stampede of serving dishes being under attack.
Addison clears her throat once all the dishes have been passed around and everyone finally starts eating. “You guys see Wesley’s new hat?” she asks casually.
Wes reaches up and spins the brim forward, and the whole table’s attention shifts his way.
I feel a pit settle in my stomach—tight and heavy—because I know what’s coming before I even see it. And my first thought isn’t for me.
It’s for Megan.
Then I read the word stitched clean across the front.
Dad.
The pit twists.
Please, Lord, let Megan hold it together. Let her not react in a way that makes Addison feel anything less than celebrated.
There’s a single beat of silence—everyone processing—and then the room erupts.
Jesse leans back with a full-on grin. “Oh boy.”
Karissa gasps, both hands flying to her mouth. “Addie!”
Cody slaps the table like he won the lottery. “I knew it!” He points. “You were moody the other day.”
Ella bursts into tears instantly, like someone flipped a switch. “Oh my word!”
Mom’s hand goes straight to her chest before she’s out of her chair, pulling Addison into a hug that practically knocks them both sideways. “Oh, sweetheart,” she chokes out, voice thick with joy. “How exciting.”
Wesley half stands, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes already glossy. Cody and Jesse crowd around him with back slaps and shoulder squeezes.
Dad gets up next and hugs Addie tight. Mom’s hugging Wesley, laughing at something he whispered that none of us catch.
I stand, giving Wes a quick handshake and pat on the shoulder; he’s grinning so big it’s contagious.
But when I sit back down, the first thing I do is reach for Megan under the table.
Her face looks perfectly neutral—sweet even—but her hand tells the truth. Her fingers tremble. Her shoulders are tight. Her pulse is racing.
She’s barely holding on. And no one else would notice. But I do.
Everyone finally settles. Mom wipes her eyes with a napkin. “We’re going to need a longer table,” she sniff-laughs.
That gets a round of laughter before the interrogation begins.
“How far along?”
“How’re you feeling?”
“When’d you find out?”
“Did you cry?”
“Did Wesley cry?”
Addison beams beneath the attention, overwhelmed but glowing. “Five weeks,” she says. “We found out last weekend. I feel good so far. And yes, we both cried.” She points at Wesley without shame. “He cried a lot.”
Wesley shrugs, grin wide and unapologetic. “I was excited.”
The dinner continues, three conversations going on at once, the kids making a mess and asking for more of mom’s applesauce. Wesley keeps fielding dad jokes from Jesse and Cody like a champ.
But Megan’s quiet, minding her own, but also trying to smile and laugh when it’s warranted. I don’t think anyone but me can see it in her eyes.
That flicker of ache that shows up when joy and longing try to share the same seat.
Cody speaks up then, pulling me from my thoughts. “So, if the baby’s due in June, that means—”
“Nope,” Karissa says. “We’re not doing that math at the table.”
The room spins up in laughter. Megan’s even laughing, harder than she has all day. And for a moment I allow myself to breathe.
* * *
We get in my truck and the silence that stands between us is nauseating. It isn’t until I’m backing around that Megan leans her head back in the seat.
I grab her hand. “I know that was hard.”
And she loses it.
Not loud, just a quiet, broken cry she tries to swallow down, but it still shakes her whole body. She covers her mouth with her free hand, shoulders trembling.
I pull into our driveway and throw it in park.
“Come here.” My voice cracks a little.
I tug her across the console, guiding her into my arms. She goes willingly, pressing her face into my chest like she’s been waiting hours for a place to fall apart.
“I’m happy for them,” she chokes out. “I really am. I love them. I just, I didn’t expect it to hurt like that.”
“I know, baby.” I hold her tighter, rubbing her back. “No one prepares you for moments like that.”
She sniffles, voice barely audible. “I feel so guilty. What kind of person cries over somebody else’s blessing?”
“The human kind,” I say quietly.
She exhales a trembling breath against me, fingers curling into the front of my shirt.
“I’m trying so hard to leave it to God, Mason. I really am.”
“I know,” I whisper into her hair. “And God knows too.”
That gets her. She presses her face harder into me, letting out a small sob like the reminder split her wide open.
I kiss the top of her head. “We’ll get there,” I murmur. “One day at a time. One prayer at a time. We’ll get there.”
Her breathing eventually slows, the storm easing. After a while, she pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes red and tired.
I brush a tear from the corner of her eye. “C’mon,” I say gently. “Let’s go inside.”
She nods and I help her out of the truck. I squeeze her hand, grounding her, guiding her.
Tonight hurt. Tonight was heavy. But we step inside together, bruised, not broken.