Chapter 18 #2
I moved on to batch cooking and prepping snacks she could grab without effort, and then portioned meals into containers and labeled them. Not because she asked, and not because she expected it, but because she deserved to have someone think about these things for her.
Someone who put her first.
Someone careful with her.
Someone who showed up.
The sun rose fully by the time I finished. My eyes were burning, my shoulders were tight, and my hands weren’t steady anymore as they shook when I set down the last container.
I scrubbed them over my face, inhaling slowly.
I wasn’t doing any of this for praise or forgiveness; this wasn’t a redemption arc. It was what I should have been doing all along, what any decent partner would do without needing a crisis to wake them up. A responsibility I had abandoned until the consequences nearly took her from me.
A quiet clink broke the silence.
My mother set a mug of tea beside me, herbal, steam rising in a soft curl, smelling calming and warm.
I didn’t realize I was trembling until she touched my arm.
“Sit,” she said softly.
My body listened, even if my mind resisted. I sank into the chair, palms pressed to my knees to hide the shake.
My mother sat beside me, not across from me, beside me, the same way she did when I was a boy and scraped my knee so badly I thought the world was ending.
She looked at the spread of food on the counter, then at me.
“You can’t undo what you did,” she said quietly.
The words landed like a stone in my chest, and she didn’t sugarcoat it because she never had.
“But you can become the man she deserves again.”
Something cracked in me, just enough for everything to spill over.
My breath hitched, and I turned my face away, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, but it didn’t stop the tears gathering hotly at the corners of my eyes.
My mother didn’t speak, she didn’t try to stop me, and she didn’t offer empty comfort. She just slid a hand onto the back of my neck and pulled me into her shoulder.
And I broke.
It was quiet and raw, like the pieces of me finally gave out and gravity did the rest.
“I could have lost her,” I whispered into her shoulder, voice cracking. “I could have—”
“I know.”
“I didn’t, I wasn’t—”
“I know.”
“I hurt her,” I breathed, every word scraping. “She was alone, and scared, and I wasn’t there.”
My mother smoothed my hair back, the same soft gesture from childhood.
“You’re here now,” she murmured. “And you’re learning. That matters.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No,” she agreed gently. “Not yet. But you’re trying the right way. Not with apologies, but with action.”
The tears slowed eventually, but the ache stayed lodged under my ribs. I leaned back, wiping at my face, embarrassed by how red my eyes felt.
My mother didn’t comment on it.
“Eat something,” she said instead, setting a small bowl of fruit in front of me. “You’ll take better care of her if you take care of yourself too.”
I picked at it without tasting it. My father walked in at some point, gave me a grim nod, acknowledgment without judgment, and let me sit in the quiet.
He poured himself coffee and said, quietly but not unkindly, “If you’re going to stay, don’t hover over her. She needs rest, not pressure.”
It landed sharp but fair. I nodded once.
“I know,” I murmured.
My father set his mug down and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
“You don’t get to march in and make this better in a single morning, son.
That’s not how this works.” He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to.
“You lost her trust. You earn that back inch by inch, not by cooking a few meals.”
The words stung. They were supposed to.
“I know,” I said again, quieter.
He nodded, short, clipped. “Then act like you do.”
There was nothing to argue with. They were right. And the worst part was that I had already known it.
After a few minutes of tense, careful silence, my mother finally sighed and nodded towards the kitchen. “You did good work,” she said. “This helps. It is one single step in the right direction, but it is finally a step”
My father left the room, footsteps quiet but firm down the hall. My mother stood beside me for a moment, shoulder almost brushing mine, both of us looking at the little army of containers between us.
“Callum,” she said softly, not gentle, not coddling, just real. “You don’t fix something like this by walking in and saying the right thing. You fix it by being here, and staying here, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
I nodded slowly.
“She doesn’t trust me,” I said.
“Not right now,” she agreed. “But she might again. If you’re patient. And careful. And if you stop acting like such a stupid and idiotic and moronic little bitch….”
I chose to ignore the last part. I deserved it.
Patience. Carefulness. Two things I’d failed at when it mattered.
“What do I do today?” I asked, feeling ridiculous for needing direction but needing it anyway.
“Today?” My mother shrugged lightly. “You cook. You clean. You stay out of her room. You let her sleep without feeling watched. And if she comes out, you keep yourself small and steady. No big speeches. No emotions spilling everywhere. Just be… calm.”
Calm. Right. I could do calm. Or at least fake it until I learned how to live inside it.
“And if she doesn’t come out?” I asked.
“Then you let her rest,” she said. “Not everything requires your intervention.”
I nodded again.
My mother touched my arm once, just a brief press of her fingertips before turning away.
I cleaned the counters again, and I organized the fridge, and I checked the broth simmering on the stove. I kept moving because stopping made my chest tighten, and because stillness felt too close to sinking.
As I kept working and fidgeting, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing town the hallway towards the guest room, not intending to go down it and not daring to intrude, just letting my eyes find the closed door.
It stayed closed, and that was okay, she needed rest more than she needed me, and I could respect that, even if it hurt to be kept at a distance.
This was where I belonged today, not at her bedside hovering, not asking for her to forgive me, not seeking some sign that I mattered, but here, moving through the kitchen, letting the act of care itself speak.
There were no expectations, no demands, no rush to the moment when she might look at me again.
Just steady work, deliberate attention, and the hope that small, consistent actions could mean more than words ever could.
And so I kept at it, letting the smell of herbs and simmering broth fill the quiet kitchen, letting the soft morning light slip through the windows, feeling the ache and the guilt and the determination all at once, knowing that this, this quiet presence, was the only way back to her, and the only way forward for both of us.