I stepped further into the room.
“Or maybe people are finally watching.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Can you believe that?”
“It means that maybe someone finally saw the version of you that I live with.”
He didn’t respond. He just got up, slow and stiff, and walked upstairs without another word.
I didn’t follow him. Instead, I curled onto the couch, tucked a throw blanket around me, and rested a hand on my belly.
“Mia and Maya,” I whispered. “You’ll never have to earn kindness, my babies. Not from me. Not from anyone.”
He didn’t respond.
I let my eyes close and pictured it again — the soft cheeks, the matching socks, and the tiny fingers curled around mine. The names had lived inside me for weeks, but saying them out loud felt like lighting a match.
It was the first warmth I’d felt in a long time.
The next few days, Briggs avoided me as much as he could.
It was the first warmth I’d felt in a long time.
He paced the kitchen, snapped at emails, and cursed under his breath about “ungrateful people.” He never said Dottie’s name again. He never mentioned the salad, or the iced tea, or the moment someone dared to treat me with decency.
