Chapter 23 Brook After Tyson left, I stood in the doorway holding Sofia, watching his truck disappear down the street. Preston was already back in the living room, playing with his trucks, humming the song Tyson had sung to him. My chest felt tight. Hollow. Like something had been carved out of me. Seeing him with the kids had been harder than I'd expected. Not because he'd done anything wrong—he'd been perfect with them, gentle and attentive and so clearly desperate to soak up every second. But because it reminded me of what we'd lost. What I had lost. The Tyson who'd held Sofia so carefully, who'd sung to Preston, who'd looked at me with those devastated eyes—that was the man I'd married. The man I'd loved with everything in me. But he was also the man who'd walked out. Who'd believed his sister over me. Who'd left me to go through labor alone, terrified and heartbroken. How was I supposed to reconcile those two versions of him? Sofia stirred against my chest, making a small sound, and I carried her to the couch. My body ached with exhaustion. I'd been up since 4 AM when she'd woken for a feeding, and I hadn't managed to get back to sle ep after. "Mama?" Preston appeared beside me, his little face serious. "When is Daddy coming back?" "Thursday, baby. He'll be back Thursday." "That's a long time."
"It's only three days." "But I miss him." Preston's lower lip trembled. "Why can't he stay here? Why does he have to leave?" I closed my eyes, trying to find words that would make sense to a four-year-old when I could barely make sense of it myself. "Because Mama and Daddy are... we're figuring some things out right now. But Daddy loves you so much, and he'll be back soon. I promise." "Did Daddy do something bad?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Why would you ask that?" "Because you're mad at him. I can tell." Preston climbed onto the couch beside me, careful not to jostle Sofia. "And he looks sad all the time now. Like when I broke your favorite cup and you were really mad." God. He was four years old and he could see right through me. "Daddy made a mistake," I said carefully. "A big one. And Mama's feelings are hurt. But we're working on it, okay? We're trying to fix it." "Are you gonna fix it?" "I don't know, baby. I hope so." Preston leaned against my side, and I wrapped my free arm around him, holding both my children close. This was what mattered. Not my anger, not my hurt. Them. Their happiness. Their security. But how could I give them that when I didn't know if I could ever trust their father again? That night, after I'd finally gotten both kids to sle ep, I called Lake. "How did it go?" she asked immediately. "It was..." I sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs. "It was hard. Really hard." "Hard how? Did he do something—" "No. He was perfect. That's the problem." I pressed my hand against my forehead. "He was so good with them, Lake. So gentle with Sofia, so patient with Preston. And Preston just... he lit up when Tyson walked in. I haven't seen him that happy in weeks." Lake was quiet for a moment. "And how did that make you feel?" "Angry. Sad. Relieved. Guilty." I laughed, but it came out bitter. "All of it at once. I'm angry that he gets to just show up and be Dad and everything's fine for Preston. I'm sad because I remember when we were a family, when it wasn't this complicated. I'm relieved because Preston needs his father and I can't be both parents. And I'm guilty because I'm the one ke eping them apart." "You're not ke eping them apart. You're protecting yourself and your kids while you figure out if Tyson can be trusted again." "But what if I'm wrong? What if I'm punishing him too much, ke eping him away too long, and I'm hurting Preston in the process?" "Brook, it's been three weeks. Three weeks since he walked out on you while you were seven months pregnant. Three weeks since he accused you of cheating and denied his own son. You're not punishing him too much. You're healing." I wanted to believe her. But watching Preston's face fall when Tyson left, hearing him ask when Daddy was coming back—that didn't feel like healing. That felt like breaking my son's heart over and over. "Dr. Morrison said something similar in my session yesterday," I admitted. "That I need to s eparate my anger at Tyson from Preston and Sofia's need for their father. That I can be furious with him and still let him be a dad." "She's right." "I know. That's why I let him come over today. But Lake, it hurt. Seeing him in our house, with our kids, like everything was normal exc ept it's not. It's so far from normal I don't even know what normal looks like anymore." "What did he do? After he was done with the kids?" I thought back to those last few minutes. Tyson standing in the doorway, looking at me like I held his entire world in
my hands. The way his voice had cracked when he'd thanked me. "He thanked me. For letting him see them. And he looked so..." I swallowed hard. "He looked destroyed, Lake. Completely destroyed. And part of me wanted to comfort him, to tell him it would be okay. But I can't. Because I don't know if it will be." "You don't have to know yet. You're allowed to take your time." "Preston asked me if we were going to fix it. If Daddy and I were going to fix things." My voice broke. "And I didn't know what to tell him." "What did you say?" "That I hoped so. But I don't know if I meant it or if I just said it to make him feel better." Lake sighed. "Brook, honey, I can't tell you what to do. Nobody can. But I will say this—you loved Tyson with everything you had. You built a life with him. And he fucked up. He fucked up so badly I wanted to murder him myself. But he's trying. He's really trying. And maybe that doesn't fix anything right now, but it's something." "Is it enough?" "I don't know. Only you can answer that." After we hung up, I sat in the dark living room, listening to the baby monitor, Sofia's soft breathing filling the silence. Was it enough? Was Tyson's desperate apologies, his willingness to do anything, his obvious devastation—was any of it enough to make up for what he'd done? I didn't have an answer. Wednesday night, Sofia had her worst night yet. She screamed from 11 PM until 3 AM, refusing to be consoled no matter what I did. I fed her, changed her, rocked her, walked with her until my legs ached. Nothing worked. By 2:30 AM, I was crying as hard as she was, sitting on the floor of the nursery with my back against the wall, Sofia wailing in my arms. I was so tired. So completely, utterly exhausted that I couldn't think straight. My body hurt . My head pounded. And I had no idea what was wrong with my daughter or how to fix it. My phone sat on the changing table, and I stared at it. I could call Tyson. He'd answer. I knew he would. He'd probably be here in fifteen minutes, ready to help, to take a shift so I could sle ep. My finger hovered over his contact. Husband I hadn't changed it yet. Hadn't been able to make myself delete the word "husband" and r eplace it with just his name. One call. That's all it would take. But if I called him, if I let him come over in the middle of the night to help with Sofia, what did that mean? Was I letting him back in? Was I admitting I couldn't do this alone? Was I giving up the moral high ground I'd been clinging to? Sofia's cries reached a new pitch, and I pressed my face against her tiny head, my own tears soaking into her soft hair. "Please, baby girl," I whispered. "Please just sle ep. Please." As if she'd heard me, her cries started to quiet. Slowly, gradually, they turned to whimpers, then to hiccups, then to silence. She was asleEp I sat there on the floor for another ten minutes, too afraid to move and wake her, before I finally stood and placed her carefully in her crib. Then I stumbled to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, my phone still clutched in my hand. I didn't call Tyson. But I wanted to. God, I'd wanted to so badly. Saturday morning arrived too quickly. Preston had T-ball at 10 AM, and I'd been dreading it all week. Not because of the game itself—Preston loved T-ball, and watching him play was usually one of my favorite things. But because I knew Tyson
would be there. He hadn't missed a single game all season, and I couldn't imagine he'd start now. Which meant we'd have to navigate being in the same space, in public, with other parents watching and probably gossiping about why we weren't sitting together. I dressed Sofia in a pink onesie with a matching hat to protect her from the sun, packed the diaper bag with enough supplies for a small army, and got Preston into his uniform. "Is Daddy coming to my game?" Preston asked as I buckled him into his car seat. "I think so, baby." "Good. I want him to see me hit the ball. I've been practicing." My heart squeezed. "I know you have. You're going to do great." When we arrived at the field, I spotted Tyson's truck immediately. He was already there, sitting in the bleachers on the far end, away from the other parents. Alone. He saw us and stood, his whole face lighting up, but he didn't approach. Just raised his hand in a small wave. I waved back, then headed to the opposite end of the bleachers, as far from him as I could get while still being able to see the field. Preston ran over to Tyson first, and I watched as Tyson crouched down, pulling our son into a tight hug. They talked for a minute, Preston gesturing excitedly, probably telling him about the hitting practice. Then Preston ran off to join his team, and Tyson climbed back into the bleachers. He looked at me across the distance, and even from here, I could see the longing on his face. I looked away. "Brook! Hey!" Melissa, another T-ball mom, climbed up to sit beside me. "Oh my gosh, is this Sofia? She's precious! How old is she now?" "Three weeks. She was early." "Oh, you poor thing. Are you getting any sle ep?" "Not much," I admitted. "I remember those days. It gets better, I promise." Melissa glanced over at Tyson, then back at me, her expression curious. "Is Tyson not sitting with you guys today?" And there it was. The question I'd been dreading. "We're just... giving each other some space right now," I said carefully. "Oh." Melissa's eyes widened slightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." "It's fine." But it wasn't fine. Because now Melissa would tell the other moms, and they'd all be watching us, speculating about what had happened. Wondering if we were getting divorced. Pitying me. I hated it. The game started, and I tried to focus on Preston. He was playing outfield first, and he looked so small out there in his oversized uniform, his glove nearly as big as his torso. Sofia started fussing, and I shifted her to my other arm, bouncing her gently. She'd been eating more frequently the past few days, and I was pretty sure she was going through a growth spurt. Which meant even less sle ep for me. "Brook?" I looked up to find Tyson standing a few feet away, holding two cups of coffee. "I thought you might want this," he said quietly, offering me one. "It's a latte. Two pumps vanilla, extra shot. The way you like it." I stared at the cup, my throat tight. He'd remembered. Of course he'd remembered. "Thank you," I said, taking it. "Can I..." He gestured to the empty spot beside me. "Can I sit with you? Just for the game?" I wanted to say no. Wanted to maintain the distance, the boundaries. But Preston was on the field, and he k ept looking over at us, his little face worried. He wanted to see his parents together. Even if it was just for an hour. "Okay," I said. Tyson sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between us. He didn't try to touch
me, didn't try to hold Sofia. Just sat there, sipping his own coffee, watching our son. "He's gotten better," Tyson said after a few minutes. "His swing. He's really improved." "He's been practicing in the backyard. With the tee you set up." "Yeah?" Tyson's voice was soft. "That's good. That's really good." We fell into silence, but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Just... sad. Heavy with everything we weren't saying. Preston came up to bat in the third inning, and I leaned forward, my heart in my throat. He'd been struggling with hitting all season, usually striking out or hitting weak grounders. But this time, he connected. The ball sailed into the outfield, and Preston took off running, his little legs pumping as fast as they could go. "Go, Preston!" I shouted, jumping to my feet. "Go, baby, go!" "That's it, buddy! Run!" Tyson was on his feet too, yelling encouragement. Preston made it to second base before the ball came in, and he stood there beaming, so proud of himself. I was crying. Actually crying over a T-ball hit. "He did it," I said, my voice shaking. "Did you see that?" "I saw it." Tyson's voice was thick with emotion. "That was amazing." I turned to look at him, and he was crying too, his eyes red and wet. Our eyes met, and for just a second, everything else fell away. It was just us, two parents watching their son succeed, sharing this moment of pure joy. Tyson reached out, his hand covering mine where it rested on the bleacher between us. The touch sent electricity through me. Warmth. Longing. Pain. I should pull away. I should maintain the boundaries. But I didn't. For just a few seconds, I let myself hold his hand, let myself remember what it felt like to share these moments with him. Then Sofia fussed, breaking the spell, and I pulled my hand back to adjust her. "Sorry," Tyson said quietly. "It's okay." We didn't touch again for the rest of the game, but something had shifted. Some small crack in the wall I'd built around my heart. After the game, Preston ran over to us, his face flushed with excitement. "Did you see, Mama? Did you see, Daddy? I hit it so far!" "You were amazing, buddy," Tyson said, scooping him up. "I'm so proud of you." "Can we get ice cream? Please? Coach said we could if we won." I looked at Tyson, and he looked back at me, the question clear in his eyes. Could we do this? Could we go get ice cream together, like a family, even though we weren't one anymore? "Please, Mama?" Preston's eyes were so hopeful. "All of us? Me, you and Daddy and baby Sofia?" How could I say no to that? "Okay," I said. "But just for a little while. Sofia needs to get home for a nap." "Yes!" Preston pumped his fist in the air. We drove s eparately to the ice cream shop, and I spent the entire drive second-guessing myself. This was a mistake. This was sending mixed signals. This was going to make everything harder. But when we sat down at a table together—Preston between us, Sofia asle ep in her car seat beside me—and Preston chattered happily about the game, his face glowing with joy, I couldn't regret it. This was what he needed. What he'd been missing. Tyson caught my eye over Preston's head, and he mouthed, "Thank you." I nodded, looking away before the tears could start again. After we finished, we walked out to the parking lot together. Preston was holding Tyson's hand, still talking a mile a minute about T-ball and his hit and how he wanted to practice more. "I'll see you Thursday,
buddy," Tyson said, crouching down to Preston's level. "Okay?" "Okay. Love you, Daddy." "Love you too. So much." Tyson hugged him tight, then stood, looking at me. "Thank you for today. For letting me sit with you. For the ice cream. It meant... it meant everything." "Preston needed it," I said. "Yeah. He did." Tyson's eyes were intense on mine. "But thank you anyway." He walked to his truck, and I buckled Preston into his car seat, then secured Sofia's carrier. As I drove home, Preston fell asle ep almost immediately, exhausted from the game and the excitement. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his face peaceful, his T-ball uniform still on. He'd been so happy today. Happier than I'd seen him in weeks. Because both his parents had been there. Together. At a red light, I pulled out my phone. Me : Thank you for coming to the game. And for the coffee. Preston was really happy to have us both there. I hit send before I could overthink it. The response came almost immediately. Husband : Thank you for letting me sit with you. It was the best morning I've had in weeks. I love you. All three of you. I stared at those last words. I love you. All three of you. Did I still love him? After everything, after all the pain and betrayal and heartbreak, did I still love Tyson? The answer came swift and sure and devastating. Yes. I still loved him. I'd never stopped. But love wasn't enough. Love hadn't stopped him from walking out. Love hadn't made him trust me when it mattered most. Could love be enough to bring us back together? I didn't know. But as I drove home with my sle eping children, my coffee cup still warm in the holder, I felt something I hadn't felt in weeks. Hope. Just the smallest sliver of it. But it was there. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.