“When you are older, I want you to know your mother was brave even when she thought she was broken. I want you to know she kept reaching for you, even on the days she couldn’t reach for herself.”
The truth hit me so suddenly that I nearly dropped the notebook.
It was written for Noah.
Every entry was for him.
I continued reading, stunned and ashamed.
“This is the night I drank from one of those awful tiny bottles because I thought maybe it would make me sleep,” he wrote. “It didn’t. So I am writing this down instead because maybe if I write the fear somewhere else, it won’t sit on my chest so hard.”
I stopped there.
My heart broke for him.
Unable to continue, I went to the veranda and waited for my husband and son to return from their walk.
They found me crying with the notebook pressed against my chest.
For a moment, Ethan and I only stared at one another. Noah was asleep in his stroller.
“Mara,” he said. “I can explain.”
His voice was not defensive.
It was ashamed.
“It’s okay,” I said, struggling around the tightness in my throat. “I read it, watched the camera, and I understand.”
His body softened against mine.
“You watched the camera?”
I nodded.
He looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him.
“I know this looks bad.”
“It does.”
We carried Noah inside and sat facing each other on the couch.
Up close, Ethan looked worse than I had allowed myself to notice. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Stubble covered his jaw, his cheeks looked thinner, and he smelled faintly of liquor, baby soap, and sweat.
He stared at the floor.
“I didn’t want you to see this version of me.”
Something inside my chest cracked.
“What version?”
“The one who’s hiding in the nursery eating gas station candy at two in the morning because the baby finally stopped crying and his wife is asleep for the first time in hours and he’s terrified that if he admits he’s not handling this well, everything will fall apart.”
Tears rose so quickly that I felt embarrassed.
“Ethan…”
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