You Were the Promise I Could Break

By February, Roman had learned that Sophie preferred movement to bouncing and hated having cold hands shoved into her sleeves.

He arrived for visits carrying practical things I'd asked for. He stopped bringing replacements for objects I already owned. When a question occurred to him, he wrote it down instead of calling three times before breakfast.

The notebook fell from his coat one afternoon.

I picked it up, opened the cover, and found a page headed Sophie.

Then I stopped.

"Sorry. Is this private?"

He looked surprised by the question.

"You can read it. Just don't tell Nico."

There were feeding notes, appointment dates, things to ask the pediatrician. Beneath one entry, he'd written: Erin hums when she's tired. Sophie settles faster.

Another said: Offer help before she has to ask. Don't argue if she says no.

I held the notebook longer than necessary.

On an earlier page, a line had been crossed out: Ask when Erin is coming home.

Below it, in smaller handwriting, he had written: She already answered.

I ran a finger beside the words without touching them. He watched me, visibly embarrassed, and for once I didn't know what to say to him.

"You don't have to make it easier," he said.

"I'm not trying to."

"I know. I'm reminding myself."

I closed the notebook carefully and returned it to his hand.

"You could have remembered this without writing it down."

"Apparently I couldn't."

I looked up. His answer hadn't been defensive.

That evening, I agreed to one joint session with Dr. Stein.

The appointment took place two weeks later. We sat at opposite ends of a sofa, close enough to remember other sofas and far enough apart to make the memory hurt.

Roman explained the trust. The deadline. His father's history. Dr. Stein listened, then asked why he hadn't told me he needed to change our plans.

"Because I thought she'd be upset."

"She was already upset," the doctor said.

Roman looked at me.

"I thought it would be over if I finished it."

"Which part?" I asked. "The money, or me asking questions?"

He winced.

"Both, probably."

It was the first answer that sounded like something he hadn't rehearsed.

I told him about the towel on the dresser. The bath we'd planned. How I had waited for him to remember before I reminded him.

"Why did you keep your promise to those men and not the one you made to me?"

Roman looked down at his hands.

For a long time, I thought he wouldn't answer.

"Because they might walk away," he said finally. "If I didn't go, they could refuse to sign."

I watched him lift his head.

"I thought you'd still be home."

Nothing in the room moved.

I had imagined the truth would be dramatic. That he still loved Laya. That he regretted marrying me. That something dangerous had forced the choice.

Instead, he had trusted my love enough to neglect it.

"I thought you were the one person I couldn't lose," he said.

My eyes filled.

"You made me feel like the one person you didn't have to choose."

He leaned toward me, then stopped when I moved away.

I cried. He didn't ask me to stop.

After the session, we stood beside our separate cars. He put his coat around my shoulders because mine was still inside with Maya, who had been watching Sophie.

I let him.

It smelled like him. Clean wool, faint cedar, a familiarity my body recognized before my mind could object.

"I used to wait for your car," I told him. "Even when I was angry. I'd hear the gate, and I'd feel better before you came inside."

His face tightened.

"I didn't know."

"You didn't have to know every detail. You just had to notice I was waiting."

When I returned the coat, his fingers brushed mine. Neither of us moved immediately.

Then Maya came out with Sophie, and the moment ended.

Over the next month, I let him visit the townhouse. I gave him the address myself. He parked an ordinary car outside and came alone.

Bianca visited too, carrying soup. Her first complaint about how long she'd gone without seeing Sophie died halfway through the sentence when she looked at my face.

"I'm making this about me," she said. "Let me start again. How are you?"

I let her sit at the kitchen table.

She told me Roman was having trouble sleeping. I told her I didn't want reports about his suffering.

"Fair," she said. "Then I'll tell him to stop looking so terrible when I visit."

Despite myself, I laughed.

One evening in March, Roman stayed to handle a feeding while I finished a work call. When I came downstairs, Sophie was asleep and he had reheated the soup.

"You forgot to eat," he said.

"I was busy."

"So I noticed."

There was no accusation in it. He pushed the bowl toward me and sat opposite, asking about the foundation's grant application.

He remembered the name of my supervisor. Asked a question that required listening to the answer.

Later, we sat on the sofa while the baby monitor glowed beside us. I leaned back and closed my eyes. At some point, my head found his shoulder.

He went completely still.

When I woke, his arm rested along the sofa behind me. He hadn't pulled me closer. His shirt was warm against my cheek.

I stayed there for one extra breath.

"I miss you," I said.

His voice was barely audible. "Come home."

I lifted my head.

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. That came out before I could stop it."

"I can't yet."

"I understand."

We sat with the space between us restored.

Then he said there was something he needed to tell me.

During the first two days after I left, he'd examined records from his father's old vehicle monitoring system at the house. He hadn't sent anyone. He had looked for clues about the car I'd left in.

"You said you wouldn't find us."

"I told myself looking wasn't the same as going after you. It was. I stopped. I've had my access removed."

The warmth of his shoulder remained on my cheek.

That made the disclosure worse.

"If the records had shown you where I was," I asked, "would you have come?"