Then, what about her?

The following days passed in a haze of quiet uncertainty. Gilbert would start each morning by feeding Ariel, juggling work calls with one hand while cradling her in the other. He had requested paternity leave when the situation with Shantel began unraveling. Someone had to maintain some semblance of order. Yet, as the days blurred into one another, the solitude of the nights weighed heavier than he had anticipated.

He chose not to confide in anyone—not even his own family. The pain felt too personal, too sacred to share.

A week dragged on, and just when he thought everything was slipping beyond his grasp, a message from Alma broke the monotony. "She read it." That was all it said. But those words were potent. It was a sliver of hope, a suggestion that there might be a way forward, even if he wasn't sure what that meant for him.

 He had to come clean himself, but he didn't know how to. How could he open up about his infertility? Doing that would kill him. It meant that Ariel was not his. And that thought alone would be enough to kill him!

How could he ask her to forgive him? Lying was one thing; orchestrating an entire life around a lie was another. He felt a sudden urge to confess it all, to lay himself bare and let her see the wreck of him.

Maybe it would relieve some pressure from his chest, this constant thud of panic that barely let him sleep. But more than anything, it would relieve Shantel of the pain she was going through.

But how? His ego as a man wouldn't let him.

The living room was softly lit with a warm amber glow, and the TV

paused on the final scene of a documentary that Gilbert didn't watch. He didn't put Ariel down, but nestled her against his chest.

Gilbert didn't want to move, although he came down to work.

He had spent the last several nights in this same position—rocking Ariel to sleep and sitting there long after, lost in the space Shantel used to fill.

The silence wasn't as sharp as it had been that first night. But it still echoed.

He looked down at Ariel, her chest rising and falling in tiny, perfect movements.

"You want to know about your mama?" he whispered.

He didn't expect to talk, but once he started, the words came on their own. Like they'd been waiting.

"She used to hum when she cooked. Not songs, just little offbeat notes. It was annoying as hell but somehow still beautiful."

He smiled to himself.

"She danced in the kitchen when she thought no one was watching. Usually barefoot, usually to music in her head. I walked in on her once—she froze like she'd been caught stealing something."

Ariel shifted, settling deeper.

Gilbert slumped back into the couch cushion, his gaze wandering, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I always thought she was too good for me. I still do, if I'm being honest. But it wasn't just her intelligence or passion—it was how she saw people.

The broken ones, the loud ones, those who hid behind humor or anger. She saw right through it all." He shook his head, wrestling with his thoughts. "And yet, she chose me. I can't decide if that's a blessing or a burden." Maybe now, he knew he was a burden.

His mind drifted to their wedding.

It had poured that morning—just enough to make everyone anxious.

Yet, just ten minutes before the ceremony, the clouds parted, revealing a clear sky. Shantel had always dreamed of an outdoor wedding, longing to be enveloped by the trees, the sky, and the wind. And she got exactly what she wished for.

He recalled her expression as she made her way down the aisle—not the cliché radiance of brides in glossy magazines, but a steadfastness. A certainty.

She was stepping into a future she was prepared to craft from the very foundation, and that thought, once so joyful, now lingered with a touch of melancholy.

They wrote their own vows.

She said, "I will love you through your quiet."

He had cried harder than he expected as these thoughts floated in his mind.

Ariel stirred again, as if sensing his unstable emotions.

Gilbert gently rocked her, continuing in a murmur. "Your mama was the strongest person I knew. Still is. But even strong people crack. And I didn't see it happening. No, I didn't want to."

His eyes found a photo on the mantle—one from a hiking trip. Shantel smiling with the sun behind her, her cheeks flushed, eyes wild with joy. He missed that look.

"I think I gradually lost her," he confessed out loud. "It didn't happen all at once."

He recalled their initial conversation about IVF. It had taken them four months just to bring it up.

"I just want to ensure we're trying everything," she had said, her voice unnervingly calm.

He had nodded, concealing his own frustration. He longed for a natural conception. But was that even feasible, considering his circumstances at the time? Yet all he focused on was keeping his secret hidden. He should have known better.

They went through tests and consultations. Blood tests before breakfast. Injections in the thigh. Hope followed by a wait, then heartbreak.

She endured it all with quiet determination, while he endured it with growing shame. All the while knowing he was most likely the problem. He was the reason.

He remembered sitting in his car after that appointment, staring at the dashboard for an hour. He didn't know how to break the news to her. How could he tell her he was the reason for her suffering?

"I should have told her right then," he whispered to Ariel. "But I was scared."

He closed his eyes, voice rougher now.

"I failed her. Not because I lied, but because I didn't give her a place to fall apart. I turned your mama this way, baby."

He got up slowly and carried Ariel back to the nursery, laying her gently into the crib. She fussed for a moment, then quieted.

Gilbert stood there for a long time, one hand on the crib railing.

"Your mama loves you," he whispered. "Even if she doesn't know how to show it right now."

He turned off the light and left the door cracked.

Later that night, he pulled out his notebook and wrote again.

Shay,

I miss your laugh. I miss your humming. I miss how you always corrected me when I mixed up our laundry loads.

I miss watching you fall in love with our daughter—even though I know that part never fully got to happen.

I wish I could take back everything I didn't say. I wish I had told you sooner how afraid I was too.

I still am. But more than fear, there's this—hope.

Hope that we're not finished. Hope that Ariel gets to know you the way I know you. Hope that you find your way back—not just to us, but to yourself. Until then, I'll keep holding space for all three of us.

Always,

G.

He folded the letter, labeled it, and placed it with the first one.

He didn't know when she'd read it.

But he knew she would.

Eventually.

 Alma did not say anything when she opened the door to find Shantel standing there with her luggage. She made way for her to enter the house.

Despite being younger, Shantel had always been the family's stabilizing force during their chaotic childhood, which is why Alma finds it particularly unsettling to watch her sister's careful composure fracture into moments of unpredictability.

She looked like the whole world was on her shoulder. After entering the house she took her straight to the guest room.

Shantel walked into the room, dropped the luggage and laid down on the bed, turning her face towards the wall.

Alma looked at her back facing her, and her heart broke. But she knew very well to not ask any questions now. She walked out of the room and closed the door gently behind her.

The walls of Alma's guest room were painted a soft mint green, calming on purpose. The kind of color you chose for quiet. For rest. For recovery.

Shantel knew Alma wouldn't ask her any questions until she was ready to talk, also, she won't tell Gilbert she was here. Which is why she came here. 

She needed time to herself. She didn't feel like doing anything at all. She felt numb all of a sudden. 

She was going through the motions of living, but they felt surreal, like she was performing a role and didn't have the script.

She thought leaving would help her, but it left her with more questions and doubts. If she stayed, she knew she would have to confront him again. And how could she? When she was not even sure that she could forgive him.

Not now. Not yet.

His lies were unforgivable. But was she herself innocent? She was not sure of anything anymore. Not even herself.

She curled into a fetal position, the bed cold and unfamiliar. The thought of Ariel's face haunted her, an ache she couldn't quite place or understand.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out all the noise in her head, all the questions that had no answers.

She woke up later, not knowing how long she'd slept. The room was dark, the evening sun casting long shadows across the floor. Alma had left a tray of

food on the nightstand. The sight of it made Shantel's stomach turn.

She sat up slowly, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her once again. The decision to leave had been impulsive, but staying felt impossible. She was stuck, paralyzed by the enormity of everything left unsaid. And it suffocated her so much.

How could she face him? How could she face herself? And Ariel—how could she ever look at her without seeing the tangle of betrayal and love and confusion that now defined her?

She reached for the mug of tea that was beside the food tray, wrapping her hands around the warmth. Alma's quiet presence in the house was comforting, a reminder that she wasn't completely alone, even if she felt that way.

But even Alma couldn't fix this. And she knew it very well. So, a long stay here was out of the options.

Shantel's phone buzzed, a low hum on the nightstand. She didn't have to look to know it was from him. She let it ring, each vibration like a pulse of guilt, a reminder of the pain and confusion she was going through.

Why did it have to be like this? Why did she have to face all this alone without him even stepping forward to own up to what he's been hiding?

Then, what about her? Was she not hiding something as well?