Byron sat separately during the service. Before it began, he approached me.
“Nervous?”
“Can I hold Duncan?”
Our temporary plan allowed it, so I placed our son in his arms.
Byron looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Today isn’t where you repair your image.”
“I’m apologizing to you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Then do it later, when there isn’t an audience and you aren’t holding Duncan between us.”
His face tightened.
“I have rights.”
“So does he. He has the right to a father who doesn’t turn every important day into a performance.”
I took Duncan back when the minister called us forward.
“Do it later.”
***
During the blessing, he began to fuss. I whispered his name, and he settled against me.
Thomas smiled from the front row.
“He knows your voice.”
I kissed Duncan’s forehead.
“And he’ll grow up knowing I used it.”
“He knows your voice.”
***
One year later, the photograph from the community meal stood beside his birthday cake.
The divorce was final. Byron had regular parenting time, written schedules, and no key to my home. Thomas remained close to Duncan. Mary raised her child separately.
When Duncan reached for the candle, I caught his hand and kissed his fingers.
Byron had entered my hospital room believing exhaustion had made me powerless.
The divorce was final.
He mistook my silence for surrender.
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I spent ten years protecting our marriage.
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