Chapter 15 The Things Made by Hand #2
I pull a tissue from my pocket and wipe the inside of the windshield where my breath has fogged it again. The boundary stone is visible through the cleared glass, gray and solid in the rain.
"Your mother is responsible for what she did," I say. "But the way you responded to it is yours."
"I know."
"And I can't keep being the one who reminds you to stand up. I can't be the coach in your ear telling you when to speak and what to say. That has to come from you, without prompting, or it doesn't mean anything."
"You're right." He turns to look at me fully.
"I'm not asking you to teach me how to be a decent husband.
I'm just telling you that I understand now why I wasn't one.
The reasons underneath the excuses. And I'm telling you that our child isn't going to watch me fail their mother the way I failed you. "
The tenderness in his voice when he says our child makes something twist in my chest. I hear the hope in it, and I want that for him. For us. I just can't let wanting it answer every question I still have.
"I want to believe that," I say.
"I know. And I know I haven't earned the right to be believed yet." He reaches toward me, then stops, his hand hovering in the space between us. "But I'm going to keep trying. Not because I expect you to forgive me, but because it's what I should have been doing all along."
I don't take his hand. But I don't pull away either.
The rain is lighter now, the drumming on the roof softening to a gentle patter. Through the fogged windows, I can see the outline of the olive tree, the boundary stone, the lane stretching back toward the farm.
"Leon."
"Yes?"
"I don't know if I can trust you yet. I want to. Part of me wants to believe everything you're saying. But I've heard promises before."
"I know."
"And I'm carrying our child. Which makes everything more complicated. Because I can't just think about what I want anymore. I have to think about what's best for the baby, and what kind of life we're going to build, and whether I can count on you to be there when it matters."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because this isn't just about us anymore. This is about whether our child is going to grow up watching their father choose peace with his mother over their mother's dignity. Whether they're going to learn that love means being hidden away, protected in private but invisible in public."
Leon is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is steady.
"I don't want our child to learn that. I don't want them to grow up the way you've been living for two years.
And I know that saying it isn't enough. I know I have to show you, over and over, until you believe it.
" He rests his hands on his knees. "But I also know that some things can't be proven in a day or a week or even a month.
Some things take time. And I'm asking you to give me that time. "
"What are you asking for, exactly?"
"There's a place," he says. "A cove on the coast, past the estate. We used to go there, before we were married. Before everything got so complicated."
I remember the cove. A hidden stretch of beach where we'd escape when the weight of secrecy felt too heavy. Where we'd talked about the future like it was something we could shape together.
"I remember."
"I'd like to take you there. Not to hide.
Not to pretend that going somewhere private solves everything.
But because it was ours, once. And I think we need to see if it can be ours again.
" He looks at me. "We could drive out tomorrow.
In daylight, when the weather's better. Spend some time in a place that holds good memories.
And then you can decide what you want to do next. "
"You're asking me to go somewhere alone with you."
"I'm asking you to consider it. If you say no, I'll understand. If you say you need more time, I'll wait. But I wanted to ask."
I think about the cove. The way the light used to fall on the water in the afternoon. The sound of the waves and the smell of salt and the feeling of being somewhere no one else could reach us.
"Let me think about it," I say.
"Of course."
He drives me back to the farm. The rain has nearly stopped by the time we reach the gate, just a light mist hanging in the air. Leon pulls up to the fence and turns off the engine.
"Thank you," he says. "For coming. For listening."
"Thank you for waiting."
"I meant what I said. If you don't want to go to the cove, that's okay. I'll keep coming to the farm, keep working, keep trying to prove myself in whatever way you'll let me."
"I know."
I reach for the door handle, then pause. "The necklace you made me. I haven't worn it yet."
"You don't have to wear it."
"I know. But I kept looking at it last night. At the knots you tied. I thought about you sitting alone, trying to make something with your hands."
"It's not very good."
"It's honest. That matters more."
I get out of the car and walk through the gate. At the kitchen door, I turn back and wave once. Leon waves back, and then he drives away, his taillights disappearing into the mist.
Inside, my mother is at the stove, stirring something that smells like soup. My father is at the table, reading.
"You're wet," my mother says.
"A little. I was walking in the rain."
"Is Leon still here?"
"He just left. He drove me back."
My mother sets down her spoon and looks at me properly. "Are you all right?"
"I don't know yet." I pull off my wet coat and hang it by the door. "But I think I might be getting there."
She doesn't ask more questions. She just hands me a towel for my hair and goes back to stirring the soup. My father looks up from his paper, meets my eyes, and nods once before returning to his reading.
I go to the guest room and change out of my damp clothes. The yarn necklace is still on the dresser where I left it, the uneven knots visible under the bedside lamp.
I pick it up and hold it in my palm. It's light, almost weightless, but I can feel the effort in it. The hours Leon spent working the yarn, the mistakes he made and started over from, the determination to create something meaningful with nothing but his hands and his time.
I don't put it on. Not yet.
But I tuck it into my pocket instead of leaving it on the dresser, and I carry it with me when I go back to the kitchen for dinner.
That night, after my parents have gone to bed, I sit on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hands.
Leon's message from earlier is still there, the one about meeting at the boundary stone. I scroll past it, thinking.
The cove. A place that was ours before the estate and Vera and all the complications that came with marriage. A place where we were just Ysabel and Leon, two people who loved each other and believed that love would be enough.
It wasn't enough. I know that now. But maybe it could be the beginning of something. Maybe going back to where we started could help us figure out where we want to go.
I type a message, delete it, type again.
Finally, I send: Tomorrow. The cove. But this is the last time I follow you somewhere hidden. After this, whatever we are has to be out in the open.
His response comes quickly: I understand. I'll pick you up at ten.
I set down the phone and look at the necklace in my hand. The cream-colored yarn, the careful knots, the evidence of effort and intention.
Tomorrow I'll go to the cove with my husband. I'll listen to whatever else he has to say. And then I'll decide whether I can trust him to be different, or whether the pattern we've been living is too strong to break.
I don't know what I'll choose. I don't know if I can forgive him, or if forgiveness is even the right word for what needs to happen between us.
I tell myself I need one quiet day with him to decide, without another task waiting or my parents in the next room. Perhaps I can finally say goodbye properly. Perhaps that is all I am agreeing to.
I put the necklace back in my pocket and lie down in the dark, listening to the rain that's started up again outside the window.
Tomorrow. One more chance to see if we can be something other than what we've been.