Chapter 3

He took my hand and Brentley's, placed them together, and his clouded tears slid silently down his cheeks.

Dad had always been so proud and unyielding; it was rare to see him look so vulnerable.

I quietly grabbed a tissue and wiped his tears away.

He turned to Brentley and said, "Brentley, you've always been the steady one. Trusting Bethany to you makes me feel at ease. You're husband and wife now—you're in this together for the long haul.

"Whatever comes your way, lean on each other and show some understanding. I've always taught Bethany to be rational, but truth is, inside, she's not nearly as strong as she pretends to be..."

Brentley squeezed my hand tight and said to Dad, "You can count on me. I'll take care of Bethany and the baby. We'll make it—together, happy and side-by-side, all the way to old age."

After we left the hospital room, Brentley gently helped me along. "Honey, let's go get a check-up."

Brentley's eyes were shining as he looked at me. The guy who was always calm and collected actually sounded a little excited. "I can't wait to find out—boy or girl? Which would you rather have, babe?

"I'm rooting for a daughter who's as adorable as you. Sons are way too much trouble—always causing mischief, and with how busy we both are... it'd be a handful!"

"Sorry about that," I pulled my hand away from his, a bit embarrassed. "I only said it to make Dad feel better. I didn't want him always worrying. I'm not actually pregnant."

Brentley just stood there for a second, his smile frozen on his face.

Then he tried to cheer me up. "Hey, it's fine. We'll have kids someday. Maybe now's not the best time anyway, with how exhausted you've been lately."

He was trying to convince both of us, "Someday. We'll have kids. For sure."

On the drive home, Brentley said, "You know, once you hit thirty, all you really want is a wife, a kid, and a warm home. I..."

He glanced over at me, saw me leaning back and resting, and just let the words hang in the air.

I couldn't help but wonder if every couple went through betrayal, if everyone ended up feeling worlds apart, even while sitting side-by-side.

I still remembered that just after we got married, I had to go abroad for work. We were really far away from each other, but Brentley would video call me every day after work.

Sometimes we wouldn't even talk, just kept each other company while working overtime on video. Other times, he'd fill me in on stuff from his office, and I'd share what was happening at mine.

Back then, I was still pretty serious, but I could practically feel happiness and joy all over my face, like it was about to burst out just under the surface.

We were thousands of miles apart, but felt close as ever. Now we were standing side by side, yet it felt like we were a world away.

That was what marriage was.

Harriet had posted again on X.

There was a photo of her getting an IV at the hospital, and another of her sitting in the passenger seat of a car. The post read: [Shouldn't have worn a dress just to look pretty. Now I've got a fever and got scolded for it.]

She added a little pouty emoji at the end.

As usual, Brentley's face wasn't in the picture, but I could see the lucky charm I'd gotten for him hanging in the car. He'd always kept it there.

And there she was, sitting in the passenger seat that was supposed to be mine.

I couldn't stop myself from imagining it—did he ever reach for her hand when they were stuck at a red light, stealing those little moments that used to belong to me?

That picture haunted me, squeezing my chest so hard it felt like an invisible fist was choking the life out of my heart.

I took one last look at my phone and put it down, my heart weighing heavy. Even in his sleep, Dad's face was still twisted with pain.

Honestly, the painkillers didn't seem to be doing much for him anymore.

After a while, he woke up and said to me, "If it's a girl, we could name her Charlotte. If it's a boy, Oscar."

I smiled and said, "Oscar? That sounds good."

He looked a little resigned and explained, "Yeah, that's a great name."

After he finished speaking, he started coughing again.

Even his cough sounded weak.

Every raspy cough felt like a hammer blow to my heart. Holding back tears, I tried to comfort him—like soothing a small child—murmuring over and over, "It's fine."

That night, I slept in the outer room, listening to his nonstop coughing. I pressed my fingers against my lips, desperately trying not to sob out loud while tears streamed down my face.

The heart monitor let out a piercing, continuous beep. My father, who used to be so strong, now looked like a fish washed up on the shore, gasping for air he just couldn't get.

As the medical staff rushed him into the emergency room, I clung to his hand, refusing to let go.

His eyes were full of relief and contentment, mixed with a touch of apology and pain.

I sobbed, "Dad, I'll be fine... I really will..."

The red light above the operating room flickered on, shutting us out. That door was the line—life or death, nothing in between.

The hospital's white walls had soaked up more prayers than any church ever did.

When I knelt down to pray, all I wanted was for Dad to find Mom in heaven.

I knew he was hurting so much.