Page 8 of His Daughter

Margot reached across the desk and covered my hand with hers. “You’re allowed to let someone carry this for you.”

No one carries anything for me. That's not how this works. I pulled back. “I’m fine. I’m handling it.”

My phone rang. I glanced at it and groaned. My sister’s name. I cleared my throat. “I have to take this.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Nina will be fine if you don’t answer.”

“No. I’d rather get it over with.”

Margot nodded and rose. She paused to shoot me a sympathetic look before strolling out.

I pressed the green button. “Hey.” I tried to make my voice sound normal.

“How are you doing?” Nina asked. Her voice was careful, as if she were testing the water.

“I’m good. Busy. We need to find more funds for the nonprofit. We’ve been looking into — ”

“Thea, Caleb called me.”

I closed my eyes. Of course, he did. A few weeks of uncomfortable conversations, and the first thing he did was run to my sister.

“He said you locked the nursery,” she continued. “That you won’t give him the key.”

I pressed a finger against my temple. “That’s not what happened. The room just needs to stay closed for now.”

“For now. Okay. And when does ‘for now’ end?”

“Nina.”

“I’m asking because he’s worried. I’m worried. You’ve been through — ” She stopped. I wished she’d just say it, so it wouldn’t live in the secret conversations between her and my husband. “Listen, I know how hard this was. You’ve been trying for years. The IVFs didn’t work. The adoption fell through three times before this one. And when you finally thought you had it…” She took a breath. “Do you need to talk to someone? A professional?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re locked in a grief spiral, and you won’t let anyone near you.”

“I have to go.”

“Thea, wait. You need to talk to Caleb. You’re pushing him out, and that’s not good for your marriage.”

Hot, white anger clouded my chest. I sat up straighter. “I don’t need advice on my marriage, Nina.”

“I’m not trying to — ”

I hung up and set the phone face down. My hand was steady, but the rest of me wasn’t.

Caleb’s car was in the driveway when I got home.

That alone was unusual. He’d been staying at his parents’ house most of the week — coming by in the mornings to shower and change while I was already at work, leaving before I got back. We’d been orbiting each other without touching, two people living in the same house in different time zones.

I sat in the car for a minute. The porch light was on. The kitchen window glowed warm. Through the glass, I could see him moving — a shadow passing back and forth in the kitchen.

He was cooking.

I walked in. The house smelled of garlic and butter. Pasta was on the stove, garlic bread in the oven, and a bottle of red wine sat on the dining table.

Caleb turned as the door clicked shut. He had on his old faded navy college T-shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked at me and smiled.

I looked at that smile and wondered how. How could he stand in this kitchen and smile when I spent every morning walking past a locked door and pretending the room behind it didn’t exist?