Chapter Eighteen
“Can you believe she said that?” I take a bite of the cobbler, chewing as I wait for my mother's answer.
Turning to my dad, I raise an eyebrow.
“I can't believe she said that,” he says in a high-pitched, mock-outraged voice.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to Mom.
“Mom?”
She hesitates. “Sweetie, you're a mom now. You have to think about Sophia.”
“I am thinking about her.” I put my fork down. “She's the reason I didn't shoot him when I found out. God, Mom, I stayed in that woman's apartment for weeks because of her.”
“And I'm proud of you for that,” Mom says gently. “But a child needs her dad. Imagine your life without yours.”
I turn to Dad.
He’s not looking at me, he’s staring at mom like she grew a second head.
Setting his fork down, Dad asks, “Honey, are you saying if I'd cheated on you, you'd have stayed because you're a mom?”
She blinks.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He leans back in his chair. “If I'd slept with another woman, would you have stayed because we had kids?”
Mom opens her mouth. Then closes it.
She shakes her head. “This isn't about us. It's about our daughter quitting.”
“Excuse me?” I cut in, offended.
“Bronwyn.” Mom sighs. “I love you, but being a mother means making hard decisions.”
I gape at her. “Mothe-”
“Can't you and Brad try therapy?”
“Therapy?” I ask incredulously. “We're divorcing. That's the one thing we both agree on.”
“You've been married for nearly thirteen years. Surely-”
“He cheated on me,” I point out because apparently everyone keeps forgetting that part. “He cheated on me with our surrogate.”
Mom takes a breath. Then another. “Bob, you talk to her.”
“Leave him,” Dad says to me with a shrug.
“Robert,” she snaps.
I blink at my mother. Don’t get me wrong I love my dad for the support but I’m not gonna let her deflect. “I thought you didn't like him.”
“I didn't,” Mom admits. “Then I watched the two of you stay together over the years. He stayed when you quit your job-”
“After I supported him while he made pennies as a resident.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Along with his trust fund.”
“His trust fund barely covered tuition and you know his parents refused to help us if we moved to LA.”
“But they did.”
“After three years of me busting my ass.”
The words come out louder than I intended.
“Jesus, Mom.” I push back my chair and stand. “You called me every week worried I was working myself to death.”
“I'm not saying-”
“No, what are you saying?” I demand. “Because it sounds a lot like you implying I’ve done nothing but sit on my ass.”
She opens her mouth but nothing comes out, clearly realizing she’s losing.
Dad stands and comes to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“Bob, talk to her,” Mom practically begs.
“I can't.” The simple answer makes both of us freeze. “Bree, you're in the wrong here.”
Mom just stares at him. And I go quiet.
Because for the first time in probably my entire life, I'm watching my father disagree with my mother in front of me.
And judging by the look on Mom's face, she can't quite believe it either.
Dad squeezes my shoulder. Still using that calm voice he always uses when he's telling us we're wrong without raising his voice.
“When she told us everything that happened, I'm not gonna lie, sweetheart, I was upset you didn't tell us sooner.” He glances down at me. “But judging by your reaction,” he shakes his head, “I can see why.”
Mom's eyes fill with tears, but Dad doesn't rush to comfort her. He doesn't take the words back.
Instead he squeezes my shoulder again.
“Let's go, sweetheart.”
I want to look back. Make sure Mom's okay. But her words are still ringing in my ears.
I honestly thought she'd sharpen the knives and call Brad's mother the second I told her what happened. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect her to defend him.
Or maybe that's not what she was doing.
I'm still not sure.
Dad quietly closes the front door behind us before making his way to the porch swing.
I follow.
We're quiet for a few minutes, both staring out at the yard, until Dad leans back with a sigh.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
I shrug. “It's not your fault.”
“It is.” He nods before removing his glasses and smiling sadly at me. “I'm the reason she thinks you should give him another chance.”
My stomach twists. “Dad...”
“Not like that,” he scoffs. “I'd never cheat on your mother.”
The relief is immediate.
“But we had bad years.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “There was one period right after I got that godforsaken promotion where I mentally checked out. I left her to raise you girls by herself.”
I blink surprised. “What happened?”
Because I have absolutely no memory of my parents ever having serious problems.
Sure, they argued. Everybody argues.
Dad purses his lips. “She left me.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“She took you girls and left.”
I stare at him. “I don't remember that at all.”
“You were six.” He shrugs. “And it wasn't for very long. Because thankfully I pulled my head out of my ass.” A faint smile crosses his face. “Then I spent several days begging her to come home.”
I think about Mom. About how stubborn she is. About how impossible she can be when she's made up her mind.
“Did it work?”
Dad laughs. “Well, unless there's another Bob living in the house, I'd say yes.”
Despite the situation, I smile.
“Now she thinks if you give Brad a chance, you'll end up happy like we did.”
I stare out at the yard. “But we're not you guys.”
“No.”
“And Brad didn't mentally check out.”
“No.”
“He cheated.”
Dad nods again. “He did.”
The simple agreement makes my throat tighten.
“He cheated,” I repeat.
“I know.”
I wipe at my eyes. “Then why do I feel so awful?”
Dad is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and places a hand on mine.
“Do you still love him?”
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I really think about it.
Why has this bothered me so much? Why has him asking for a divorce felt worse than finding out he cheated?
"It's like..." I swallow. "It's like the way he said it. Like it was my fault for not forgiving him. That I'm the reason our marriage ended."
Dad's expression darkens.
"He blamed you?"
"Not in so many words." I stare down at my folded hands. "He said he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life apologizing for his worst mistake and that..."
I trail off.
Because saying it out loud makes it sound even worse.
"I always knew he was weak," Dad says with a snarl.
I let out a small hum. Not gonna argue with that.
"Men make mistakes," Dad continues. "We're human. But if he's not willing to make up for them, if he's not willing to spend the rest of his life proving it won't happen again, then you're better off rid of him."
I study him.
The man I always thought was faultless. Now he's flawed just like everyone else.
"Is that what you did?" I can’t help but ask.
Dad scrunches his brows.
"In a way," he answers. "Whenever I had a choice, work or you girls, my pride or your mother, I knew what I had to lose." He shrugs. "In a way, messing up made me a better dad and husband."
I smile sadly. "You are a great dad."
"Well, it helps that you're a great daughter."
I laugh through the tears I didn't even realize I'd shed. "You're my dad. You have to say that."
Dad snorts. "Trust me, if you were an asshole, I'd tell you."
That only makes me laugh harder. Somewhere the laughter turns into tears. Then tears into sobs.
It's like months of holding everything in finally catches up to me. Plotting. Planning. Moving. Survival. Every practical thing I'd focused on instead of how I actually felt.
Before I can wipe my face, Dad pulls me into a hug. I go willingly.
The second my forehead presses against his chest, I really break.
My shoulders start shaking.
I clutch the front of Dad's shirt, reliving every awful thing that's happened over the last few months.
Brad blamed me. For cheating. For ending our marriage.
For not being able to forgive him fast enough to make what he did easier to live with.
A large part of me knows he was looking for somewhere to put the guilt. Knows it was easier to make me responsible than accept what he'd done.
But there is still a part of me that hears those words and wonders.
Years of specialists and treatments don't just disappear.
Neither do years of disappointment.
"I wasn't enough," I whisper.
The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them myself.
I gave up my career, my ambitions, my independence, all for the hope of having a family.
And I couldn't even do that.
Instead I spent years watching other women experience it while I sat on the sidelines pretending I was happy for them. Smiling at baby announcements. Buying gifts for baby showers. Listening to complaints about morning sickness and swollen ankles while telling myself I was better off.
Every time I thought I'd made peace with it, something would happen and I'd realize I hadn't.
Then Laila carried Sophie.
And somehow that would've been okay.
I truly think it would've.
But then Brad chose her.
And now every ugly thought I ever had about myself suddenly feels justified.
My throat burns.
I bury my face deeper into Dad's chest, trying to breathe through it.
Because suddenly I understand why this hurts so much.
Laila was supposed to be the solution. The happy ending.
I thought once we had a baby, all those years of pain would finally mean something.
That I'd stop feeling broken. That I'd stop wondering what was wrong with me.
Instead, every time I looked at her, all I could see was someone who'd done the one thing I couldn't.
The one thing I'd wanted more than anything.
And when my husband cheated with her... It felt like proof.
Proof that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted it, no matter how many years I spent praying and hoping and hurting, I still wasn't enough.
Because he didn't cheat with some random woman. He cheated with the woman carrying our child.
The woman whose body succeeded where mine failed. The woman who gave him something I couldn't.
And no matter how much I hate myself for thinking it, some small broken part of me still can't help wondering if that's why.
If he looked at her and saw everything I wasn't.
Everything I couldn't be.