He had wanted a son—not just a child, but a mirror he could polish clean. A boy to lift from the wreckage of his own bruised childhood, to raise with gentleness where he’d known rage. But instead, he’d been swallowed by a life he never imagined: tea parties, frilly socks, a chorus of little voices that seemed to irritate him. Somewhere between the second and fifth pregnancy, the dream had curdled.
What scared him most wasn’t the noise or the bills—it was the terrifying clarity that this was it. That he’d spend the rest of his life working himself into dust for a life he hadn’t chosen. And so, at twenty-nine, he chose himself instead.
One night, long past midnight, he stood in the hallway listening to the quiet hum of sleep. Lucy’s breath, soft and strained. Tiny hands curled around blankets. And in that moment, something inside him just gave. He scrawled six words on a scrap of receipt paper—“I can’t do this anymore.” He packed a bag, stepped out into the dark, and didn’t look back—not even once.
He’d deleted her number, thrown out every photo, and buried the memories deep inside. It was easier that way—to pretend none of it had happened. Until now. On her Facebook profile, the past came flooding back in a single photo: Lucy, older but radiant, beaming beside a young woman in a cap and gown.