And just like that, I felt hope.
Maybe this was his way of reaching for me. Maybe he was trying. I threw myself into the planning. I picked up fresh flowers, ironed the tablecloth, and used the good china we kept boxed away in the attic. Emma helped me fold the napkins into little triangles, while Jacob practiced card tricks in the living room, already planning a game with Grandpa.
That afternoon, Marcus actually smiled at me. It was a real, easy smile, the kind I hadn’t seen in months.
The evening started perfectly. My mom arrived with a pie. Marcus’ parents brought a bottle of wine and their usual jokes about how quiet our house seemed. Iris, his younger sister, was her usual bright self, sweeping Emma into a hug and ruffling Jacob’s hair. For the first time in a long while, I felt surrounded by warmth.
We toasted to good health. We laughed at Jacob’s clumsy card shuffling. Marcus poured wine, made small talk, and even touched my arm once, just briefly, when passing the mashed potatoes. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Then, after dessert, everything changed.
Marcus stood up so suddenly, his chair scraped loudly across the floor. He gripped the back of it like he needed to steady himself.
“I have someone I’d like you all to meet,” he said, his voice sounding strange, almost formal.
I looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
But before he answered, the front door opened.
A woman walked in.
She looked around 30, maybe younger. She had long, dark hair and impossibly smooth skin. Her fitted black dress hugged her figure, the kind of dress you wear when you know people will be looking at you. And they were, especially at the rounded curve of her stomach.
She was pregnant.
She crossed the room with careful confidence, not meeting my eyes. She walked straight to Marcus’ side and stood there, her hand just inches from his.
“This is Camille,” Marcus said, his voice steady now. “She means a great deal to me. And we’re expecting a child together.”
My heart stopped.
