14. Fragile Equilibrium Too long #2
As people filter out, Eric pats my shoulder. “You carried it.”
“You carried the prep,” I say.
“I guided,” he says. “You delivered.”
He leaves after a moment, giving me space to breathe. I sit for a second, running my hand through my hair and letting the adrenaline drain. When I walk back to my desk thirty minutes later, I see a message from Reid waiting on my screen.
Reid: How’d it go? I sit back and exhale slowly.
Good. Better than I thought. Eric helped me with the pitch a lot. A pause.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Reid: I’m glad he helped. I know you were stressed.
The old version of Reid would’ve gotten weird at the mention of Eric. The insecure version. The version that still struggled to understand the world I was building outside of us.
This version—the one working to grow—responds with understanding, even if a tiny part of him still hates how close my work life is to me sometimes. So I tell him the truth.
It felt good to handle something big at work. I’m proud of myself.
No hesitation this time.
Reid: You should be proud. You’re killing it.
The praise hits unexpectedly hard. My throat goes tight.
Thank you.
Reid: So… can we do a call later? I don’t have practice today.
I smile at the screen.
Yeah. Tonight.
“You look happy,” Callie says as she walks past my cubicle.
“Presentation’s over,” I say, shrugging lightly.
“That too,” she teases.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Around three, Destiny texts.
Destiny: Mom said she might be able to grab Liam if you’re working late. You good?
Yeah, I think I’ll be out on time.
Destiny: Okay. Just checking. You always say you got it under control and then end up drowning.
My jaw tightens.
I’m fine, Des.
A winking emoji pops up.
Destiny: I know. That’s why we annoy you. Love you.
I huff but smile a little. Family. Loud. Nosy. Supportive. And sometimes exactly what I need even when I hate admitting it.
As the day winds down, I send a quick email, pack my things, and head out. I manage to beat traffic for once, which feels like a minor miracle. I’m halfway to the daycare when my phone rings through the car speakers. Mom again.
“You out of work?” she asks.
“Yeah. Heading to get Liam.”
“You want me to meet you at your place? I can help with dinner.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, then soften my tone. “But thank you.”
“You work too hard,” she says. “Make sure you don’t forget to breathe.”
“I’m trying,” I say again.
She hums. “Good. Reid call you today?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “He’s been calling a lot.”
“That’s good,” she says, her voice careful. “Just make sure the effort stays consistent.”
“I know.”
“I’ll let you go. Drive safe.”
When the call ends, I grip the wheel tighter.
Reid is trying. I’m trying. We’re both trying.
But the balance we’re building still feels fragile.
One good day, then one off moment. One reassuring conversation, then one reminder of the distance between us.
The progress is real—but so is the uncertainty.
I know the chapter isn’t done yet. I know we still have a long way to go. But for the first time in a while, it feels like maybe we’re moving in the right direction, even if the road is still shaky beneath us.
By the time I pull into the daycare lot, my nerves from the presentation have simmered down into a dull throb behind my eyes.
The building is low and brick with bright murals near the entrance.
It still feels strange walking in here like this is normal, like dropping my son at daycare is just part of my day now.
Inside, the smell of crayons and disinfectant hits me.
One of the teachers waves as I sign Liam out.
“How did he do today?” I ask.
“He did really well,” she says, smiling. “He cried a little at nap time, but he settled down faster than last week. He’s starting to follow the routine.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “That’s good. Thank you.”
Liam toddles over when he spots me, cheeks sticky, hair sticking up like he fought with the floor and lost. He reaches his arms up.
“Hey, baby,” I say as I scoop him up. “You giving these people a hard time?”
He laughs and grabs my hair in answer.
On the drive home, he babbles at the trees outside his window. I listen with half an ear and think about the day: the comment about doing it “on my own,” the pitch, Eric’s steady presence, Reid’s messages.
It’s a strange mix—support, pressure, pride, guilt.
I feel like I’m holding all of it in my chest and hoping nothing spills.
At home, I put Liam in his high chair and heat leftovers.
He bangs a spoon on the tray like he’s auditioning for a band.
I set a plate down for him and another for myself and try to ignore the clock on the stove.
Reid said he wanted to call tonight. I want that too. I also want my brain to stop spinning long enough to actually be present. Liam drops a piece of food on the floor and looks at me like he expects it to magically climb back up.
“You did that,” I say, pointing at the mess. “You figure it out.”
He laughs again. I sigh and pick it up. After dinner, it’s bath time, pajamas, a story.
By the time I lay him in his crib, he’s heavy and warm and barely holding onto consciousness.
I stand there for a second, watching his chest rise and fall.
The daycare teacher’s words replay in my head.
He’s starting to follow the routine. I’m still trying to follow mine.
My phone buzzes once I’m back in the living room.
I grab it from the coffee table and answer before it can ring again.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Reid says. His voice fills the quiet apartment. “You good to talk?”
“Yeah. He just went down.”
“How’s my little man?” he asks.
“He’s fine,” I say. “Tried to beat up a spoon at dinner. Lost.”
Reid laughs softly. “He gets that from you.”
“He gets the stubborn from me,” I say. “The chaos is all you.”
There’s a pause where I hear him shifting, maybe sitting on his bed or at his desk.
“So,” he says, “tell me about your big thing today. How’d it go? For real.”
I sit on the couch and curl my legs under me. “It actually went… well,” I say. “I didn’t forget my own name, so that’s a plus.”
“That’s a low bar,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “I want details.”
“You want details?” I ask.
“I do,” he says. “Start from the beginning. What did you present again? The—algorithm thing?”
“It’s not an algorithm,” I say, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see it.
“It’s a proposed workflow redesign for the new client integration.
We’ve been having bottlenecks with how data is being passed between internal teams, so Eric had me build out a revised process and model some projections for rollout. ”
“That’s… a lot of words,” he says. “But you sound proud.”
“I am,” I admit. “It was nerve-wracking, but Eric ran through it with me. The questions were tough, but I answered them. Nobody tore it apart.”
“That’s because you’re good at what you do,” he says. “I’m serious, Amelia. I know I joke about not understanding half of it, but I’m proud of you.”
The words land deeper than I expect. I stare at the wall for a second, swallowing around the sudden tightness in my throat.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“I mean it,” he says. “I know it’s not easy. You’re working full-time, taking care of Liam, dealing with me at a distance. You’re doing a lot.”
“I’m just trying not to drop anything,” I say.
“You’re allowed to,” he says. “Drop something sometimes.”
“I can’t drop our son,” I say.
“You won’t,” he says. “You never have.”
I let myself lean back into the couch cushion, letting his words sit there between us. It’s the first time in a while he’s said it like that, like he sees all of it—the job, the daycare, the late nights—and not just the parts that directly touch him.
“What about you?” I ask. “How’s school?”
“Busy,” he says. “We’ve got a group project with this one guy who thinks deadlines are suggestions, so that’s fun. I’ve been in the library more than the gym this week.”
“That’s new,” I say.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says. “I’ll be back to dunking on people as soon as this project is done.”
“Is that what you call it?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “That is exactly what I call it.”
I laugh, and it feels almost like it used to. Easy. Light. Not weighed down by everything we still haven’t figured out. There’s movement on his end, muffled voices in the background. Someone calls his name.
“That your roommate?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “He’s heading out. Wanted to know if I’m coming. I told him no.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I already know.
“Because I promised you we’d talk tonight,” he says. “I’m not bailing on that to go mess around.”
The simple answer hits harder than any grand speech. There’s no guilt trip attached, no edge in his tone. Just a choice he made and isn’t asking for a medal for.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeats. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “I just… appreciate it.”
“Well, good,” he says. “Because I want to be here. Even if ‘here’ is a phone and bad campus Wi-Fi.”
There’s another pause. This one is comfortable.
“Mom helped me find the daycare,” I say after a moment. “She keeps reminding me I’m not doing this alone. Even when it feels like it.”
“She’s right,” he says. “You’re not. I know it doesn’t always look like it, but I’m trying.”
“I see that,” I say. “More lately.”
“I’m going to keep trying,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re carrying all of this by yourself.”
I nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”