The Space Between Promises by Rachel L. Jeffers Read Free Book Online Page B

of us relenting. He refuses to ask me any direct questions, and I refuse to continue to ask why I am a victim of his brooding silence. Both of us know why. And so, realizing I have nothing to lose, and actually gain the credibility of not caring what he thinks, I say, "This is about Nate, and there's no sense in either of us pretending." I see that he is surprised by my open, casual admission, and he quickly works to gain composure. He tries to appear satisfied that he has wormed the information out of me, but as he quietly shifts his gaze from mine, I see something in his eyes that is unfamiliar to me. Pain.
 
    ***

Although I feel as though I have no reason to feel guilty, given the maltreatment I am suffocating under, I feel a stab of regret for having inflicted a fresh wound to the man I still love. I have no idea why, or how, but try as I might, I cannot fall out of love with him. And the knowledge that I have caused him pain is bittersweet. With it, comes the knowledge that he loves me. He can say that he does not, he can question his own heart, but the truth flickers in his eyes like a single match's flame in the midst of the storm. There is no denying what I see. He loves me, I am sure of it.

In a few days I would softly approach him, and I would sincerely apologize for what I had done. I would assure him that I had not attempted any contact with Nate, nor did I intend to. He would balk at my apology, pretend he was not hurt by my omission, contend that my intentions were dishonorable, and I would leave it be, knowing that in his heart, he knows the woman he married. She is loyal, she is his alone. There was never another man that she made love to, and there never would be. He would take comfort in that, all the while maintaining that she could never hurt him. What I didn't foresee was that I addition to all of this, he would tenderly look me in the eye and say, "I understand. I know he is your first love." And I would be speechless. There was a saying that I happened upon one afternoon, "I married the one my soul loves." And it is true. Gregory is the one my soul loves, so deeply, nothing can separate it. But Nate, he was the man who unknowingly stole my heart. And so it would be, that I would say to him, "Gregory, you are my whole world. You and the kids are everything, and it is you that I love."

This is the moment that some healing will begin. It will prove to be an excruciating and slow process, riddled with doubt, unanswered questions and hateful words splattered along the way. It will stop entirely at times, and we would function in an ambivalent bubble, unmoved by time or space. And then something will spark within us, and that bubble would break. We will feel free to love in the moment, leaving the mess behind. And in one of those very moments, a few years later, Tessa is conceived.
    ***

I am positive this baby is a boy, and we agreed readily on a name; Charles. But on the off-chance it was a girl, we were stuck mid-way between my choice, Cordelia, and Gregory's choice, Theresa, after his mother. The gap was hopelessly wide and having felt as though I had lost so much leverage over the years, I remained silent on this issue, believing it would have been an argument in vain.

It is an interminable pregnancy, grievously endured, as one form or another of infection yields discomfort and difficulty. Repeatedly misdiagnosed and advised that discomfort was inherent to pregnancy, I was shooed from office visits, only to end up hospitalized with yet another infection.

She was finally delivered; a day I thought would never arrive, and only after the doctor succeeded in manually breaking my water, a process which drove me straight up to the head of the bed screaming.

"We'll call her Tessa," I inform him, as I lay her in the bassinet. He squirms a bit, as I recline in the bed, content to have her rest in her little plastic palace.
"Aren't you going to hold her?" He asks. "She's fine," I respond, avoiding