20. Intertwined Paths #2
Thursday comes faster than expected. The recognition dinner is held at one of those upscale restaurants where the lighting is warm, the chairs are impossibly comfortable, and the air smells faintly of roasted garlic and money.
I leave Liam with my mom—he cried for exactly seven seconds before she distracted him with crackers.
When I arrive, coworkers wave me over. Eric stands near the front, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Reid’s textbooks for the semester, and raises his glass in a silent hey, you made it.
I take a seat at a round table with a few other team members. People talk. Laugh. Compliment each other’s outfits. It’s the kind of event where everyone pretends to be relaxed but is hyper-aware of who’s in the room. Just before things begin, my phone buzzes.
Reid: You look beautiful.
How do you know?
Reid: I know you.
My stomach flips a little.
Eric leans over. “Boyfriend checking in?”
“Something like that,” I say.
He smirks. “Tell him he owes me for covering your inbox this afternoon.”
I laugh. “He’ll Venmo you a thank-you.”
“You’re terrible,” he says, but he’s smiling.
The event starts. People clap politely as names are called, projects highlighted, milestones mentioned.
When mine is announced, Eric squeezes my shoulder before I stand.
I walk up, accept the small glass award, and smile through the obligatory photos.
It’s surreal—being acknowledged for something I’ve done while juggling everything else.
For a moment, I let myself feel proud. Really proud.
Not the diluted kind that gets drowned out by diapers and daycare schedules.
Afterward, back at the table, coworkers congratulate me.
Someone mentions future leadership potential.
Another says they’re not surprised. I catch myself wondering what Reid would say if he were here.
I already know. He’d smile that quiet smile.
The one he gets when he’s proud but doesn’t want to embarrass me in public.
When the dinner ends, I step outside into the cool evening air and call him.
“Hey,” Reid says immediately. “How was it? Did they butcher your name? They butcher everyone’s name at events like that.”
I laugh. “They actually got it right.”
“Wow. A miracle.”
“It was nice,” I say. “Really nice.”
“I wish I was there.”
“Me too.”
There’s a beat where neither of us speaks, but everything is being said anyway.
“I’m proud of you,” he says again, voice low. “I hope you know that.”
I close my eyes. “I do.”
Late that night, after I shower and sit on the edge of my bed, my phone buzzes with another message—this time from Hazel.
Hazel: Heard you were amazing tonight.
It went well.
Hazel: Girl. Stop being humble. You’re killing it.
Hazel: Don’t downplay your light for anyone. I smile, typing back slowly.
Thank you. Really.
Hazel: I’ll swoop in tomorrow with iced coffee to keep you in your power.
I laugh at that, then set my phone aside. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel split down the middle between being a mom, a partner, and a woman with a career. Tonight I’m allowed to be all three at once.
But when I lie down, the other side returns—the one that knows we’re building our lives on two different tracks. Reid’s in school, fighting group projects and exams. I’m in this job, trying to climb without falling. Our paths are rising, but not together. Not yet.
And even though there’s hope threading through all of it, I can feel the question forming underneath: How long can we keep walking parallel before one of us has to shift? I don’t know the answer. But we’re trying. And for now, that has to be enough.
I don’t realize how late it is until I’m pulling into Mom’s driveway to pick up Liam.
The porch light glows like a soft beacon, and when I walk inside, Mom is on the couch with Liam sleeping on her chest, a blanket tucked around both of them.
The sight punches warmth into my chest—not dramatic, not sentimental. Just steady, grounding warmth.
Mom whispers, “Long night?”
“Good night,” I say. “But yeah. Long.”
She nods like she understands exactly what I mean, even if I didn’t say it. I lift Liam gently from her hold—his cheek is warm against mine, his breath slow and deep. Mom stands with me at the door before I leave.
“I’m proud of you,” she says. “For what you did tonight… and for what you do every day.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“Go home, get some rest,” she says. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
I smile because she always says that. And she’s always right.
When I get home, I ease Liam into his crib, kiss the top of his curly head, and stand there for a moment just watching him.
He’s bigger than he was last month, taller than he was last week.
Growing whether I’m ready or not. My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter.
Reid: You home safe?
Just got in.
Reid: How’s Liam?
Out like a light.
There’s a moment before he responds.
Reid: I keep thinking about how proud I am of you. I hope you know that feeling doesn’t go away when I hang up the phone.
My throat tightens a little—not painfully, just enough that I know I needed to hear it. Not the version where he tries to match my exhaustion. Not the version where everything is a parallel struggle. Just this—him witnessing something that matters to me.
I know. Thank you.
Reid: When can we talk-tell me everything?
Tomorrow. I’m dead right now.
Reid: Same. Call me in the morning?
I will.
I shower, slipping into soft pajamas afterward, and crawl into bed with damp hair.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind of quiet where thoughts get loud if I let them—but tonight, they don’t.
Tonight there’s a hum of something like…
balance. Not perfect balance. Just enough to breathe.
My mind drifts to the dinner—the applause, the small award in my bag, the way Eric looked proud of me, the way coworkers clapped like I belonged there. And then Reid’s voice, calling right after, hearing the pride in his tone even though he’s miles away.
For the first time in a long stretch of chapters in our relationship, it doesn’t feel like one of us is sprinting while the other is stuck in mud. We’re both climbing. Different ladders, different heights. But climbing.
Still, as I settle deeper into the pillows, I can feel something else quietly weaving into the edges of that hope—pressure. Expectations. The kind that show up at the worst moments. And they come sooner than I expect. On a Saturday afternoon, two days later.
Mom is hosting a small get-together—nothing formal, just family drifting in and out. It’s warm outside, kids playing in the yard, adults clustered around the kitchen island, the smell of fried chicken and honey cornbread lingering in the air.