Chapter 8 #2
Geechie coughed and wiped blood from his mouth, laughing through it. “Yeah, nigga. Real cute. All this for a bitch that don’t even want you.”
Tate decked him that time. One clean swing. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Oh my goodness! Tate!” Narri grabbed his arm.
Sabine didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Dusted herself off slowly, chest rising with controlled breath and the look she gave Adair?
It wasn’t anger.
It was disappointment.
Worse.
FOUR YEARS AGO – NEW YORK
Sabine remembered standing in their tiny Brooklyn apartment with the cracked tile and no elevator, trying to be excited about what came next. Adair was in school then—law school, full-time—spending late nights with casebooks, chasing something big enough to change their lives.
And Sabine? She stayed home.
At first, it was by choice. She wanted Ade to have her full attention.
Wanted to be the kind of mother who made homemade purées and read bedtime stories in funny voices.
But somewhere between teething and laundry, between budgeting with a single income and planning Adair’s interviews, she fell back.
Became the one who reminded, who asked, who pushed.
The “did you forget the wipes again?” voice. The “can you be home by seven?” voice.
The nag.
It wasn’t on purpose but it happened and she hated how much she recognized herself in the mothers she swore she’d never become. The wife she did not want to be.
Adair didn’t complain. He paid the bills, rubbed her feet, held her when she broke down at night from the weight of it all but he didn’t always see her. Not really and when he got that internship, the one he said could open every door, they both acted like it wasn’t going to change anything.
It changed everything.
Adair was gone more. Stressed more. Loving, but distant.
Always somewhere else. And Sabine? She was pregnant again before Ade even turned one.
Unplanned. Unprepared and heartbreakingly alone through most of it.
Her second pregnancy came with backaches and Braxton Hicks, with ultrasounds she went to by herself and nights she cried without knowing exactly why.
She still made dinner. Still rubbed his back when he came in late. Still tried to be the woman who never needed help but the days started to blur and her reflection in the mirror looked more like a version of her she didn’t recognize.
One of Ade’s toys blinked from the floor, pulsing red light into the dim room like a warning. Sabine pressed a cold rag to the side of her neck, sweat collecting beneath her hairline. Her back ached. Her ankles ached. Her heart ached.
Ten months postpartum and already pregnant again. She didn’t even realize she was late until the second test turned pink and by then, Adair was deep into his internship. Deep into briefs and late nights and sending her “I’ll be home soon” texts that sounded more like delays than promises.
The TV was on low. Ade sat on the rug in his footie pajamas, banging a plastic ring against the floor, wide awake and nowhere near sleep. It was 10:14 p.m.
Sabine rubbed her temples, trying not to cry. Again. She used to have plans—jobs lined up, hobbies, but nothing fit their schedule, and no one wanted to hire a woman who couldn’t promise full availability. So, she stayed home. Nursed. Changed diapers. Tried to be grateful.
She was grateful. Just not happy.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Adair: “Finishing up soon. Another hour maybe.”
Sabine stared at the screen like it had cursed her out. She closed her eyes and breathed once, long and hard through her nose.
Another hour.
Another fuckin’ hour.
Slow but it finally came.
The lock clicked at 11:05.
Adair stepped inside, loosening his tie, voice low like he expected peace. “Why is he still up?” he asked, glancing at their baby crawling toward the door like he’d been waiting on him.
Sabine didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the archway with her arms crossed under her chest, small baby bump already forming, hair falling loose from a bun that used to look cute.
Adair blinked at her. “Bine?”
“You walk in this house and the first thing you ask me is why your son is awake?” Her voice didn’t rise. Not yet but it trembled.
“I wasn’t—” He took a step forward, then hesitated. “I just meant…is he okay? Why’s he—?”
“Because I’m tired, Adair!” The words burst out, raw and bleeding. “Because I’ve been trying to rock him, nurse him, read to him, fucking sing to him for three hours while my back feels like it’s going to snap in half and my ankles are damn near fused together!”
Adair’s brows knit. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“And I’m pregnant! Again! In case you forgot,” she added, gesturing wildly at her belly. “Pregnant. Tired. Alone. Every goddamn night you’re at that office, and I’m here. I can’t even tell when your day ends or if I even factor into it anymore!”
Ade blinked up at both of them now, tiny hand gripping his father’s pant leg.
Adair stepped forward, voice dropping. “Lower your voice. He’s watching.”
That’s when it happened.
The baby bottle from the counter.
The teether.
The balled-up burp cloth.
One by one, they flew.
“Fuck you,” she hissed, throwing the bottle across the room. It thudded against the door and rolled.
“Sabine—”
“I hate this! I hate this place! I hate that I gave up everything and now I don’t even recognize myself. I feel like a fuckin’ shadow. A maid. A wet nurse!”
Ade whimpered and she froze. Her eyes finally landing on their son—on the tears starting to pool, his lip quivering.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, kneeling to him, arms wrapping around his small body. “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy didn’t mean to yell.”
Adair knelt too, one hand on Ade’s back. The other reaching for her shoulder and she flinched.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
They sat there in that spot. All three of them on that floor—one crying, one trembling, one too ashamed to speak.
The bedroom was dark. Sabine lay curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath her belly, the other cradling her head. Her face was dry now, eyes swollen but blank. The house was quiet. Adair had taken Ade and rocked him until he fell asleep.
The shower shut off minutes ago, but Sabine didn’t move. Not even when the bathroom door creaked open, letting out a puff of steam and the faint scent of his body wash.
She felt the mattress dip behind her. Then his arm slid carefully around her, the way he used to do when they were still new and figuring things out. He didn’t say anything at first. Just held her. His chest against her back, his hand finding the curve of her stomach. That small, growing bump.
“I miss you,” he said into the silence. Voice low. Heavy.
Sabine closed her eyes, letting his words hang there.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’ve been missing a lot. Missing you. Ade. I come home, and it’s like I forgot how to find you in all this.”
Sabine let out a slow breath. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Adair.”
“You’re mine.”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m tired. I’m lonely and I’m scared. I’m tired of always pretending I’m okay when I’m not. You get to go out in the world and be Adair Dayne—brilliant, admired. I’m just...here. Forgotten.”
“I see you,” he said. “I swear to God, Bine, I see you. I just don’t know how to give you what you need right now. I feel like everything I do is wrong.”
Sabine turned then, slowly, her eyes meeting his even in the darkness—somehow, they still found one another. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I just want you to show up. I needed you tonight.”
Adair pulled her in tighter, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m trying. I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re mad. I know I deserved everything you said. I just…” he exhaled. “I’m trying, Bine. Really trying.”
“I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like this. I don’t want to keep yelling. I don’t want our baby to hear this version of us.”
He shifted closer. “Then let’s fix it. Tell me how.”
Sabine’s voice cracked. “Be here. Not just…present. With me. I know you’re working, I know it’s for us, but I feel like I’m drowning and you’re swimming laps around me.”
Adair’s jaw tensed. “You think I don’t feel that too? Like I’m running so hard to get us somewhere better and every time I look up, I’m further from you?”
Sabine didn’t reply. She just let the tears come this time.
Her lip trembled, and the first tear slid across her cheek.
Adair reached for it, brushed it away with the pad of his thumb, then pulled her into his chest. He held her like that until her breath evened, her body softened, and the weight between them settled.
It didn’t fix anything but it was something. It didn’t undo the distance. Didn’t mend everything they’d torn in each other.
But for a while, it was enough.