“I remembered the ginger one helped when you felt sick,” he said.
I looked at the cup, then at him.
“I can’t accept things from you right now.”
“Of course.”
He set the bag on the table and stepped away from it.
The thoughtfulness touched a part of me I wished were harder to reach.
That was the trouble with grief and love: they did not disappear just because trust had.
We sat in the front room, with the lake visible between the bare branches outside.
At first we spoke only about the pregnancy.
Alexander asked whether the doctor had given me a date for the next scan.
I told him Daniel would send it once the clinic confirmed the schedule.
He nodded and asked no more.
The baby shifted beneath my sweater.
Without thinking, I placed my hand over the movement.
Alexander’s eyes followed the gesture, but he did not reach for me.
