The silence between Hannah and me has grown louder since that night. I can feel it every time I walk through the door and see her busying herself in the kitchen or folding baby clothes in the living room.
She doesn’t bring up what happened, doesn’t ask why I called her by Abigail’s name over and over again that disastrous wedding night. But I know she hasn’t forgotten. How could she?
And yet, Hannah tries. She’s always trying. Every meal she cooks is elaborate, plated like she’s auditioning for a food magazine. She hums softly as she works, as if she’s creating this vision of a happy, domestic life that we both know doesn’t exist.
At first, I avoided her efforts. I work late, taking on extra cases at the firm, and when I do come home, I retreat to the guest room, claiming exhaustion or the need to review documents.
But Hannah doesn’t give up.
One morning she places a perfectly cooked breakfast before me. Her performance is flawless. Too flawless.
“Vincent,” she starts, her voice soft but firm. “We can’t keep living like this.”
I glance up from my barely touched plate, meeting her gaze. She’s nervous — I can tell by the way she twists her wedding ring around her finger — but there’s a determination in her eyes that catches me off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already know where this is going.
“This… this isn’t a marriage,” she says, gesturing to the space between us. “We’re living like strangers, and it’s not fair. Not to me, not to you, and definitely not to our child.” Her voice hardens slightly. “We need to talk about this.”
“About what?” The coffee burns my tongue, but the pain is welcome. Real.
“About us. About how you’ve been sleeping in the guest room for all that time. About how you barely look at me.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Hannah, I — ”
“No, let me finish.” She walks around the table, determination etched in every movement. “I know I’m not her. I know this isn’t how you imagined things. It’s not how I imagined them either. But this is our reality now, and we have to make it work.”
Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond.
“I’m not saying we have to be perfect,” she continues, her voice faltering slightly. “But we have to try. We owe that to our child.”
Our child. The words twist in my gut like a knife.
She pauses, then adds, “I think we should start sleeping in the same bed at least. It’s going to confuse the baby if we’re acting like we’re not even a real family.”
“What do you want from me?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“I want you to try. To really try.” She kneels beside my chair, taking my hand and placing it on her stomach. “Our baby deserves parents who at least attempt to build something real.”
That’s when something inside me snaps. The frustration, the guilt, the endless gnawing ache of missing Abigail — it all comes rushing to the surface.
I yank my hand away, standing so abruptly my chair crashes to the floor.
“You want something real?” The words pour out like poison. “You’re not the woman I dreamed of marrying. You’re not the future I planned. You’re just a random stripper who—”
The slap echoes through the kitchen. Hannah’s eyes widen, her hand flying to cover her mouth in shock at her own action.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
“No.” I touch my stinging cheek. “I deserved that. What I said… it was cruel.”
She backs away, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. At that moment, she looks so young, so vulnerable — nothing like the confident dancer who caught my drunken attention that fateful night.
“I know you love her,” she says softly. “But can’t you try to love me too? Even a little?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. Because she’s right — this is my choice, my responsibility. I chose to marry her, to take responsibility for this child.
I can’t keep punishing her for a decision I made.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll move back to our bedroom. We’ll… try. For the baby.”
The smile that lights up her face makes my chest ache. Not with love — that still belongs solely to Abigail — but with something like hope. Maybe we can build something here, even if it’s not what I originally wanted.
