Chapter 15
Lucas
Six months later
I took therapy seriously. I bought the recommended books, did the exercises, even journaled my dreams for a month until the therapist said I could stop.
I didn’t text or call Victoria, not once, even when I thought about her in the empty hours between visits with Grace.
I deleted her number, then memorized it, then forgot it.
My supervised visits were mostly in the park.
I learned to pack the right snacks, to dress Grace in layers, to keep a change of clothes and a packet of wipes in every possible pocket.
I never pushed for more time. I never used her as a reason to see Bella, not after the first time when I saw the recoil in her eyes.
I kept writing letters, but now I read some of them to Grace during our visits.
I told her about the first time I held her, about the rain that night, about the way she smelled like new paper and summer grass.
Sometimes she fell asleep halfway through, her fingers curled around the edge of the envelope, her lips parted just like her mother’s.
Bella reinvented herself with a vengeance.
She joined a support group for NICU mothers, started running three miles every morning, and volunteered with a charity that delivered care packages to families with premature babies.
I saw her on the news once, being interviewed about the importance of parental leave and mental health for new mothers.
Her hair was longer. She wore a bright scarf and spoke with the confidence of someone who had outlived their shame.
Evelyn told me Bella was starting to date again. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t want to know. The only thing I cared about was that she seemed less brittle, that her laugh—when I heard it—no longer sounded like an apology.
The first family event was Grace’s half-birthday. Christian and Evelyn hosted, all five of their kids running wild through the backyard. Bella dressed Grace in a yellow dress with matching shoes, and Grace promptly destroyed both with a fistful of birthday cake.
I kept my distance, sipping beer on the patio while the older kids played tag and the adults gossiped in low voices.
Hunter arrived late with Olivia and their twins, and he gave me a nod from across the yard.
We hadn’t spoken much since the hospital, but he always acknowledged my presence. It was enough.
Near sunset, Grace started to cry. I watched as Bella checked her temperature, frowned, then called me over.
“She’s warm,” Bella said. “Maybe teething. Can you distract her while I find the Tylenol?”
I took Grace, bounced her gently, sang the dumb song about bumblebees I’d learned from YouTube. She calmed, but when Bella returned, I noticed the flush on Grace’s cheeks hadn’t faded.
“I think she’s spiking,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Should we call the pediatrician?”
Bella looked at me, surprised. Then she nodded. “Yes. Good catch.”
We took turns holding Grace, timing her temperature, following every instruction from the nurse line. When Grace finally dozed off, sweaty and spent, Bella set her in the Pack-n-Play and sat next to me on the porch.
“You handled that well,” she said.
I shrugged, unsure if it was a compliment.
She smiled, tired but genuine. “You’re not trying to fix everything anymore. You’re just… here.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, but I knew it didn’t matter. She already knew.
A week later, Bella texted: Can you put Grace to bed tonight? She’s asking for you.
I nearly dropped my phone.
I arrived at seven sharp, let myself in through the side door.
Grace was in pajamas with stars on the feet, already fighting sleep.
I rocked her, read her the latest letter (about the first time she tried avocado and spat it in my hair), and when she closed her eyes, I set her down as carefully as possible.
From the hallway, I saw Bella watching.
“She’s lucky,” Bella whispered.
“No,” I said, “I’m the lucky one.”
I gathered my things, headed for the door. As I reached the stoop, Bella called out.
“You can leave the letters,” she said. “If you want.”
I left the stack on the entry table.
Driving home,
One year to the day after Grace was born, the paperwork arrived in a heavy manila envelope.
The return address was Bella’s lawyer, but the contents were mostly checkboxes: who gets which holidays, who pays which bills, how to handle medical decisions and school forms and the slow, bureaucratic dividing of what was once a single life.
I signed everything in one sitting. No hesitation, no negotiation.
The only time I paused was on the line about future amendments—if both parties agreed, the arrangements could be changed.
I scrawled my initials, then sat with the pen in my hand for a minute, wondering what it meant to leave a door open that you’d already watched close.
The next visit, Bella handed me a copy of the decree. “It’s official,” she said, not looking up.
I nodded. “Thank you for letting me see her as much as you do.”
She smiled, not quite forgiving but no longer defensive. “You show up. Every time. That’s all she needs.”
The unspoken part: It’s more than I got from you. I wanted to say it for her, to own it completely, but I could tell it wasn’t necessary. She’d moved on from anger. Now she just wanted to finish the story without anyone having to bleed anymore.
On my way out, I left a letter in Grace’s memory box:
Our marriage is over, but my responsibility for you and your mom never is. If you ever read these, know I never stopped trying, even when I didn’t deserve another chance.
I found out about the hospital suite from an email blast. They were fundraising for a new family room for NICU parents, and the naming donor was listed as “Anonymous—In Honor of G. Ashford.” There was a grainy picture of the half-finished lounge, and a note about how important it was to offer families a place to rest and recover after life-altering trauma.
At my next therapy session, the counselor asked, “Why not put your name on it?”
“Because I don’t want credit for making amends,” I said. “I just want to do something good and leave it alone.”
She nodded, wrote something in her notebook, and I left feeling both exposed and, weirdly, lighter.
The next week, when I picked Grace up for our visit, Bella said, “I heard about the family suite. Evelyn told me.”
I braced for anger, but she just looked at me, equal parts proud and sad. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I shrugged. “It was overdue.”
Bella reached out, touched my arm just above the wrist, then let her hand fall.
“Thank you,” she said.
And that was the end of it. No drama, no lecture. Just a small patch of good in the wreckage we’d left behind.
One afternoon, Christian called me out of nowhere. “Come over,” he said. “I have Scotch and a rare urge to talk about feelings.”
I brought the Scotch.
We sat on his porch while his kids chased each other through the sprinkler. He watched them for a while, then turned to me.
“You still love her?” he asked.
“Every day,” I said.
“You think she’ll ever come back?”
I shook my head. “It’s not about that anymore. If I spent the rest of my life making up for it, it still wouldn’t be enough.”
Christian smiled, a little proud and a little tragic. “I’m glad you finally get it.”
I poured us each another finger of Scotch. “What about you and Evelyn?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We’re good. She still gets mad about dumb things, but I let her win more now. Life’s too short for pride.”
We toasted to that.
Grace’s first birthday was small—just family, a few friends, a cake shaped like a cat.
I arrived with a present and a card, and Bella let me take a hundred pictures as Grace smeared icing all over her face.
Bella’s parents were there, and so were Olivia and Hunter and all the cousins, but it felt less like an audience and more like a team.
When the party ended, Bella asked me to help with cleanup. I boxed up the leftovers and wiped down the counters, careful not to overstep.
She found me in the nursery, sorting the new toys into bins. Grace was already asleep, one hand curled around the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
“Stay for a minute?” Bella asked.
I sat on the floor, back to the wall, watching her rock in the glider. She didn’t look at me, just stared at the baby.
“You’re better,” she said, after a while. “Not fixed. But better.”
I smiled, even though it hurt. “I’m trying.”
She looked at me, really looked, and I saw in her eyes both the man she’d loved and the man who’d left her alone.
“Maybe in another life,” she said.
“Maybe,” I echoed.
She stood, set the rabbit next to Grace, and headed for the door.
At the threshold, she paused. “You can stay until she wakes up. If you want.”
I nodded.
She left the door open behind her.
I sat in the half-light of the nursery, listening to the soft rise and fall of Grace’s breath. I let myself imagine, for just a moment, that this was enough—a chance to be here, even on the outside, even if I never made it all the way back.
When Grace woke, she smiled at me like nothing bad had ever happened.
I picked her up and held her until she fell asleep again.
And I believed, for the first time in years, that I could be enough for someone.