“You did. And more than that. You gave her something to hold onto, a piece of her past that’s been distilled into something beautiful. That’s more than memorable, Nathan. That’s a gift.”
It’s nearlydusk when there is a knock at the cottage door. When I open it, I find Nathan standing in the soft glow of the porch light, a paper bag tucked under each arm.
“Hey,” he says, shifting his grip so he can wave. “I come bearing food. You’re not allergic to peanuts, right?”
“Only to bad manners and unripe avocados,” I say, and he smiles in relief. I take the bags from him, the bottoms already greasy, and set them on the counter.
“Noted,” he says, “but this place had suspiciously good reviews, so…”
We work in easy tandem, setting plates and chopsticks on the little kitchen table, opening containers and letting the steam billow out. The food smells like ginger and soy, the sweetness of hoisin sauce, the nose-prickle of hot mustard.
I pour jasmine tea from my tin kettle, watch as Nathan inhales the scent. For a minute we just eat, heads bent, like school kids at a lunch table.
After the second helping, Nathan sets his chopsticks down, wipes his hands with a napkin, and looks at me over the rim of his tea mug. There’s a heaviness in his posture, as if he’s winding up for something weighty.
“I wanted to say sorry,” he says. “Again. About the letters. I should have put all that behind me before?—"
I hold up a hand. “You don’t need to apologize again. I get it. Some things are hard to explain until you’re forced to.”
He turns the mug in slow circles. “I guess I thought if I ignored it, it wouldn’t matter. That if I was with you, all the old stuff would just…evaporate.”
“Does it work like that?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
We sit with that for a minute, the kettle ticking as it cools. I start to clear the table, but Nathan stops me with a light touch to my wrist.
“There’s something else,” he says, softer now. “Something I didn’t tell you, and I think you deserve to know. About why Melissa and I really broke up.”
I ease back into my chair, heart ratcheting up. “Okay.”
He chews the inside of his cheek, searching for words. “We were together for so long that everyone thought we’d get married, start a family. But after her dad died, she changed. She didn’t want kids. She said the world was too hard, that she didn’t want to put someone through what she’d been through. I kept hoping she’d change her mind. That if I was patient or understanding enough, she’d come around. But she never did. And eventually she told me, point blank, that she’d never want children, and that if I did, I should find someone else.”
I’m frozen with a mouthful of sesame chicken, chopsticks hovering in midair. The room goes very still.
“I wanted kids,” he says. “Still do, I think. I just… It felt selfish to say it, after everything she’d lost. I couldn’t be the reason she was unhappy, so I told myself I could live without it. But I couldn’t.”
The rest of the words tumble out in a rush, as if they’ve been bottled for years. “When we finally ended things, it wasn’t because we didn’t love each other. It was because I couldn’t imagine dying without ever having a family. I know that sounds corny. Maybe it is. But it’s the truth.”
I put my chopsticks down. For a moment, I can’t think of anything to say. I study his face, searching for the cracks. They’re there. The tightness around his mouth, the way his hands keep fidgeting, the faint sheen of embarrassment in his eyes. I wonder how many times he’s practiced this confession and how often he’s bitten it back.
“I…didn’t expect that,” I say finally. “When you said you wanted more than she was willing to give, I thought it was something else entirely. Commitment. Or time. Not…kids.”
He laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “I guess that would have been simpler. But the truth is, I tried to be the person she needed, and in the end, I couldn’t.”
I try to digest it all. The desire for a family is something I understand in my bones, a hunger that has shaped every choice I’ve ever made. For years, I told myself that my worth was in my ability to nurture, to build a safe haven for Cassie and anyone else who wandered into my orbit. The thought that Nathan shares this need cracks something open inside me.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “That must have been hard.”
He shrugs. “Easier than pretending, I guess.”
“So, how do you see things playing out now? Do you think that’s something you still want, with me?”
He meets my gaze, and there’s something earnest and naked in his expression. “Yes. The short answer is yes. If you want that too. But I don’t want to pressure you—God, that’s the last thing. I just want to be honest about where I’m at. About who I am.”
“What about Cassie? How does she fit into your idea of family?”
He smiles, the answer already cued up. “She’s the whole point. She’s this amazing, hilarious person, and as I’ve gotten to know her, it’s been like rediscovering the world. I’d be lucky just to tag along as she grows up.”