My husband, Julian, was always gentle when I spiraled into hopelessness. He’d hold me in the kitchen when I cried into his shirt, stroke my hair, and whisper, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen when the time is right.” Sometimes he believed it, sometimes I wasn’t sure. But I clung to his words because I had nothing else.
That Saturday, though, I couldn’t fake the smile any longer. The birthday girl was opening her presents, shrieking with joy, and the other parents clapped while their kids clapped along. My chest ached, so I slipped outside with the excuse of needing fresh air.
The late afternoon sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of gold and lavender. I stood near the side of the house, letting the cool breeze sting my cheeks. Then, as I shifted closer to the driveway, I heard laughter—deep, familiar, and a little too loud.
It was Julian.
He was standing with two of his friends near the garage, a beer in his hand, shoulders loose, the way they always got after a few drinks. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but his voice carried in the stillness.
One of his friends, Marcus, asked in a lowered but clear tone, “Why don’t you guys just adopt? You can see the sadness in her eyes, man. It’s painful to watch.”
My stomach twisted. I had never spoken to Marcus about my struggles, but apparently, everyone could see them written across my face.
Julian laughed, a sharp sound that didn’t sound like the man who soothed me in the dark at night. He tipped his bottle and said, “I made sure we’ll NEVER have a little moocher.”
