Chapter 3
Naomi
Dinner stretched longer than usual. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to clear the table.
Patrick asked about Hannah’s new job. I asked whether the presentation he’d been preparing had gone well. We drifted from one ordinary conversation to another, the kind we’d had hundreds of times before.
Only tonight, something felt slightly out of rhythm. I couldn’t quite explain it.
Patrick smiled whenever I looked at him. He laughed in the right places. He reached across the table to steal another piece of garlic bread, earning an exaggerated glare from me.
“You’ve already had three,” I said.
“I’ve had two.”
“You’ve had three.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I baked them.”
“So?”
“So I counted them.”
He laughed.
“You counted the garlic bread?”
“I know who I married.”
His smile lingered, but it faded a fraction sooner than it normally would. The change was so small I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.
When we finished eating, I stood and gathered our plates. Patrick reached for his.
“I’ll help.”
“You cooked,” he said. “I’ll clean.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
He gently took the plates from my hands and carried them into the kitchen. I watched him through the doorway. He moved automatically, rinsing dishes before loading the dishwasher. It was such a familiar sight that it made my chest ache.
This was my husband. The man who folded laundry while listening to baseball games.
The man who warmed my side of the bed during winter because he knew I always complained about cold sheets.
The man who squeezed my hand during every fertility appointment without letting go until we reached the parking lot.
Tonight was supposed to be the beginning of the rest of our lives.
I slipped my hand into my pocket. The little gift box was still there. I’d almost forgotten it, not because it wasn’t important but because I’d spent the entire meal trying to work out why Patrick seemed distracted.
I shook the thought away. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe I was nervous enough for both of us.
I walked to the sideboard where I’d hidden the box behind a vase of flowers. My fingers hovered over it for a moment. Eight years of hoping. Eight years of disappointment. I’d imagined this moment so many times that reality almost felt unreal.
I picked it up carefully. The tiny white baby shoes rested beside the ultrasound picture exactly as I’d arranged them earlier. Underneath was the folded note.
We finally did it.
Nothing more needed saying.
Patrick came back into the dining room, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.
“You’ve been smiling all evening,” he said.
“I’ve had a good day.”
“I can see that.” His voice softened. “I’m glad.”
There it was again, that tiny hesitation, like something was pulling at his attention from somewhere else.
I crossed the room until I stood in front of him.
“Something’s on your mind,” I said.
He blinked.
“No.”
“Patrick.”
“It’s nothing.”
I studied him for another second. Maybe work really had been stressful. Maybe I was letting excitement turn into anxiety.
“Okay,” I said.
His shoulders relaxed just enough for me to notice. Whatever it was, it could wait. Tonight belonged to us.
“I have something for you,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted.
“For me?”
“Mhm.”
“It isn’t our anniversary.”
“I know.”
“My birthday?”
I laughed.
“You’d remember your own birthday.”
“I’d like to think so.”
I held out the small gift box.
“Open it.”
He accepted it with an amused smile, turning it over in his hands.
“What is this?”
“You’ll see.”
He looked from the box to me.
“You’ve officially made me curious.”
“Good.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Every failed treatment, every tear, every promise we’d made to each other, every ounce of hope we’d somehow managed to hold onto, it had all led to this moment. I folded my hands together to stop them from shaking.
“Go on,” I said softly. “Open it.”
Patrick smiled as he lifted the lid. The teasing expression disappeared almost immediately. He unfolded the note first. His eyes moved slowly across the page.
We finally did it.
His brow furrowed. Then he reached into the box. His fingers closed around the tiny pair of white baby shoes. He stared at them for a long second before looking at me.
Understanding spread across his face. His lips parted. His eyes filled.
Very carefully, he picked up the ultrasound photo. He looked from the grainy black-and-white image to me and back again.
“Naomi...”
I couldn’t stop smiling.
“We’re having a baby.”
The words seemed to knock the air out of him. He let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into tears almost immediately.
“Oh my God.” He covered his mouth with one hand, still clutching the ultrasound with the other. “Oh my God.”
I laughed through my own tears.
“I know.”
He closed the distance between us in two quick steps and wrapped both arms around me. I melted into him. For a long time neither of us spoke. We simply stood there holding each other. I could feel his shoulders shaking.
“I thought this might never happen,” he said, his voice cracking.
“So did I.”
He kissed the top of my head.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He leaned back just enough to cup my face.
“You did it.”
“We did it.”
He shook his head.
“No.” A watery smile spread across his face. “You’ve been through so much.”
“We’ve both been through it.”
He laughed softly.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be a dad. I’m actually going to be somebody’s dad.”
The joy in his voice filled every corner of the room. It was everything I’d imagined during the drive home, everything I’d hoped for during the endless appointments and sleepless nights. Every disappointment suddenly felt very far away.
Patrick looked back down at the ultrasound.
“When did you find out?”
“This morning.”
“And you’ve kept this secret all day?”
“I almost called you from the clinic.”
“What stopped you?”
“I wanted this.” I gestured around the room. “I wanted to see your face.”
He laughed again.
“Good decision.”
“So you approve?”
“I’ve never approved of anything more.”
He kissed me, slowly and gently, as though neither of us wanted to rush the moment. When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
“We’re going to have a baby.”
“We are.”
“I’ve pictured this day so many times.”
“So have I.”
He smiled.
“I’ve even imagined telling our parents.”
The words slipped out before either of us could stop them. A quiet sadness settled between us. My mother would never meet her grandchild. His father wouldn’t either.
Patrick reached for my hand.
“They’d be so happy.”
“I know.”
“So proud of us.”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
He squeezed my fingers.
“We’ll tell your sister tomorrow.”
“She already knows.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You called Hannah before me?”
I winced.
“I had to tell somebody.”
He laughed.
“I can’t even be offended.”
“I knew you’d forgive me.”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
He looked back at the ultrasound again. His smile lingered. Then, almost imperceptibly, it changed. The warmth remained, but something else found its way into his expression. His eyes drifted to the photograph a little longer than before. His jaw tightened. The smile turned uncertain.
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Patrick?”
He looked up immediately.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.
I searched his face. Five minutes ago he’d been crying with happiness. Now he looked as though another thought had pushed its way into the room.
I stepped closer.
“Talk to me.”
He looked down at the ultrasound, then back at me. His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Naomi...”
There was a hesitation I’d never heard from him before, not in eight years of marriage.
He took a slow breath.
“Is there anything you need to tell me?” he asked, choosing his words with painful care.
For a heartbeat, I thought I’d misheard him. I laughed softly.
“What?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Is there anything you need to tell me?”
The smile slowly faded from my face.
“What do you mean?”
He looked away before meeting my eyes again.
“I got a message today.”
“A message?”
He nodded.
“From an unknown number.”
I frowned.
“What kind of message?”
He reached into his pocket and unlocked his phone.
“I deleted it. But I restored it.”
Something cold settled low in my stomach.
He turned the screen toward me. It was a photograph. Eric, his arms around me outside the coffee shop. Nothing else. Camila wasn’t in the frame. The café entrance had been cropped out. Anyone looking at it would think we’d been standing alone on the sidewalk.
Below the photograph were eight words.
Congratulations... but are you sure you’re the father?
I stared at the screen. Then I looked back at Patrick. For a second, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Oh,” I said. That was all I managed.
Patrick watched me carefully.
“You know him.”
“Of course I know him.” I looked at the photograph again. “This is Eric.”
“The friend from college?”
“Yes. I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.” I shook my head in disbelief. “We ran into each other by accident.”
“He hugged you.”
“Because I accidentally told him today had been the happiest day of my life.” I couldn’t believe I was explaining this.
“He asked why I looked so emotional. I told him something wonderful had happened but that I couldn’t say what yet.
He congratulated me.” I pointed at the screen. “Then his wife walked over.”
Patrick’s eyebrows drew together.
“His wife?”
“Camila.” I nodded. “She was inside getting coffee.” I looked back at the photograph. “Whoever took this cropped her out.”
Silence filled the room. I let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It is.”
I looked at him.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You thought I’d...” The words caught in my throat.
Patrick closed his eyes briefly.
“I didn’t know what to think.”
I searched his face.
“You know me.”
“I do.”
“You’ve known me for eight years.”
“I know.”
“You know I don’t lie to you.”
“I know.”
“You know I would never cheat on you.”
“I know.”
He answered every question without hesitation. Every answer should have reassured me. Instead, one thought settled heavily inside my chest.
“If you know all of that,” I said, my voice very quiet, “why did you ask me?”
Patrick’s shoulders sagged.
“I hated myself for asking.”
“But you still asked.”
“I couldn’t ignore it.”
I looked down at the phone again. A hug. That was all it had taken. One photograph. One anonymous message. Eight years suddenly felt frighteningly fragile.
“I believed you’d laugh when you saw it,” I said.
“I wanted to.”
“Wanted to?”
The words echoed back at me. Patrick reached for my hand. I stepped back before he could touch me. His hand fell slowly to his side.
“I wasn’t accusing you.”
“It felt like you were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You asked if there was something I needed to tell you.” My voice cracked despite my efforts to keep it steady. “Patrick, I just told you we’re having a baby.”
He closed his eyes again.
“I know.”
“I thought tonight was going to be the happiest night of our lives.”
“It still can be.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“Can it?”
Neither of us spoke. The ultrasound photograph still rested on the dining table.
The tiny shoes sat beside it. Less than ten minutes earlier, we’d been crying because our family was finally growing.
Now I couldn’t stop wondering why my husband had looked at one anonymous photograph before he looked at eight years of our marriage.
That question hurt more than the message ever could.