Page 23 of Angel
My chest feels tight and light at the same time.
“We did it.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for months.
“I feel like I just jumped off a cliff.”
He smiles, small and gentle. “I’ll jump with you.”
Something inside me loosens at that.
Driving home later, the road feels different. Not lighter. Not magically healed. But not endless, either. The Texas sky stretches wide above us. The sun is high now. Wind brushing through the open window.
I watch Angel’s hands on the wheel. The familiar curve of his shoulders. The quiet strength in the way he drives. This man has faced things that would’ve broken others. Gunfire. Loss. Betrayal. And here he is, choosing to sit in my mess instead of riding away from it.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Always.”
“Were you scared I wouldn’t come back?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works once.
Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
The honesty of his answer hits harder than reassurance ever could.
“I was scared too,” I admit. “That if I stayed, I’d lose myself completely.”
He glances at me briefly before turning back to the road.
“You don’t have to choose between us and yourself,” he says.
“I didn’t know that until now.”
He reaches over and squeezes my knee.
“You’re allowed to be hurt and still be mine.”
The simplicity of that makes my eyes sting.
That night, back in our bed, things are different again. Not fixed, nothing has been magically healed, but it feels softer. The house doesn’t feel like a battlefield. The bed doesn’t feel like a clinic. Angel doesn’t touch me like he’s afraid to break me or like he needs something from me. He just wraps an arm around my waist and presses a kiss into my hair. We lie there in the dark.
“We don’t have to have sex tonight,” he says quietly.
There’s no accusation in it. No disappointment, just understanding. Relief floods me so fast it almost makes me cry again.
“I know,” I whisper.
We don’t. And for the first time in a long time, that doesn’t feel like failure. I lie there listening to his breathing. Steady. Solid. I let myself imagine a future that isn’t mapped out in days and temperatures and rules. A future that includes grief. And love, some uncertainty. But also, choice.
I don’t know what counseling will bring. I definitely don’t know if I’m ready to stop trying or if I ever will be or if my bodywill ever cooperate the way I want it to. But for the first time since the hospital… I know this:
I don’t have to fight my body alone.
I don’t have to fight my fear alone.
And I don’t have to sacrifice myself to prove I’m worthy of motherhood.
