My husband constantly made fun of me for not doing anything, then he found my note after the ER took me away

When we went to the 20-week ultrasound and the technician smiled, I looked at him. For the first time in years, his face had changed, devoid of bitterness or pride. “It’s a girl,” she said.

He cried.

The sound was quiet but unrestrained, as if this one truth had undone all the walls he had built around himself.

When our daughter was born, he cut the cord with trembling hands. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. After so long, I saw the man I had fallen in love with years ago. He wasn’t the one who mocked and belittled, but the one who sang to our boys at bedtime, the one who held my hand when I was scared.

But I had learned not to confuse apologies with change.

Months passed. Tyler continued his therapy. He remained present, showed up, and although he never asked for a second chance, I could see that he hoped for one.

Sometimes when the boys ask me if we’ll all live together again, I look at them and wonder. Their eyes hold a hope I’m afraid to touch, fragile like glass in my hands. Love can be jagged. It can break and hold its shape. And it can tear, heal, and leave scars.

These scars become maps, reminders of how far we have come and how far we still are from wholeness.

Maybe one day, when the wounds stop hurting, I’ll believe the version of him who cut the cord and cried.

But for now, I smile softly and say « maybe. »

The word remains on my tongue, heavy with the pain of all the truths I cannot tell them.