Page 34 of Choosing Hope

“We’ll have a more definitive date after my scan, but Dr. Townsend’s best guess was mid-May.”

I squeezed her tighter, holding her in a way I hoped she’d find protective and loving, but she seemed distant.

“When will you give up work?”

That question seemed to detonate something in her mind. She loved her career, and her reaction to such a simple question was totally unreasonable.

Sophie pushed herself back, glaring into my face.

“What do you mean?” she spat out the words.

Her response immediately annoyed me. A woman in my office had left to have a baby the year before; she was totally irrational before she left—it was actually a bit of a relief when she finally took maternity leave. My assistant, Maggie, blamed her hormones, and I assumed the same was true of Sophie. So, I dropped my voice, trying to keep my tone calm.

“Well, you can’t work forever, can you? It’s ridiculous to put your body through unnecessary stress, especially when we don’t need the money. Your health and our baby are far more important.”

I laid a gentle hand on her stomach. I assumed she’d interpret my words as loving, as I intended; I was trying to look after her and our child.

“Spencer, I’m not giving up my career.”

My hackles rose instantly. I worked hard not to lose control, but my grip was ebbing away.

“Sweetheart, I’m not allowing my child to go through the upbringing I did.”

The tone of my voice was gentle, but the punch of each word was determined.

She flopped her head onto my chest.

My opinion might be old-fashioned, totally sexist. But after the experience I’d endured, this wasn’t a negotiation I was willing to have.

What happened next will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Pushing away from me, she stood up, as if I were scolding her. I reluctantly released her, sensing her rage.

“So let me get this straight...” she snapped, her voice rising with disbelief, then dipping low, cold with scorn. “It’s fine for your child’s mother to be a whore, and its father to be a walking disaster of indecision—too spineless to choose between men or women, so you fuck whoever gives you attention and call it liberation. But God forbid I want something stable. Something normal for our child to spend a few safe hours with someone qualified, while I—who, let’s be honest, is the only adult in this circus—continues with my career.”

She lets the silence stretch, then added, “You don’t want a partner. You want permission. Permission to fall apart. And I’m done giving it.”

Her words slapped. Hard.

The moment she said them; she couldn’t take them back no matter how she tried.

“I’m sorry. That was unforgiveable; I didn’t mean it.”

She rushed toward me, gripping hold of my hand. I stared at my hand clasped in hers.

But the noise in my head was deafening.

Her assessment of me was spot on.

After several minutes of sitting in stunned silence, listening to her plethora of excuses and apologizing in every way possible, I needed to get away. I couldn’t have stayed in that room for anything.

“Spencer, talk to me,” she begged.

Slowly, so slowly, it was painful; I met her gaze.

“I think you’ve said everything that needed saying.” I withdrew my hand from hers and stood up. “Excuse me, I need to take a shower.”

I assumed I’d feel better once I’d left that room; I didn’t. I haven’t ever since.