My phone lit up on the nightstand.
A text from Ruth: *Please let me explain.
Please.*
I turned it face-down.
But I didn’t sleep.
Because underneath everything — the betrayal, the exhaustion, the grief that had been going on for months and showed no sign of stopping — there was one thought I couldn’t quiet.
*He has no one else.*
I called the dental practice on a Tuesday morning, three days after the hospital.
I had rehearsed what I would say.
“I don’t know what I thought.”
“Can I ask what Daniel knows?”
“He knows his father was sick and that he passed away.
He doesn’t know much more than that.
He’s five.
I’ve been trying to figure out what to tell him.”
I looked out the window at the grey November garden.
The roses Mark had planted along the fence were bare now, just brown canes and thorns.
“Would it be all right if I came to see you?” I said.
“Not to make any decisions.
Just to meet you.
And Daniel, if he’s comfortable.
I’m not trying to insert myself into your life.
I just — I made a promise.
Even if I didn’t know I was making it.”
Diane was quiet for a moment.
“You’re pregnant,” she said suddenly.
“Mark mentioned — in one of his messages, early on, when he first found out he was sick.
He said his wife was pregnant.”
“Due in four weeks.”
“And you’re still doing this.”
“I’m trying to figure out what doing this even means,” I said.
“I don’t have a plan.
I just have a letter.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“Okay,” she said.
“Come on Saturday.
I’ll make coffee.
Daniel will probably show you every toy he owns within the first ten minutes, so prepare yourself.”
I felt something shift in my chest.
Not relief exactly.
Something quieter than that.
“Saturday,” I said.
“Thank you, Diane.”
After I hung up, I sat for a long time without moving.
Then Ruth knocked on the front door.
I could see her through the glass panel — her coat, her grey hair, the way she was holding herself very still the way people do when they’re not sure of their welcome.
I opened the door.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I said.
