Page 43 of Angel
But I think it mattered.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Proud of you.
My throat tightens, but the tears don’t come, and the pride doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like support.
That night, alone in my sister’s spare room, I unpack a box I haven’t touched since I arrived. I’ve been living out of a suitcase, like this separation was temporary, even in my own mind. Inside the box are pieces of me I forgot about.
Old notebooks filled with half-written lyrics from years ago. A scarf I used to wear constantly. A stack of CDs I haven’t played since Angel, and I first moved in together.
I sit cross-legged on the floor and put one in the old stereo in the corner of the room. The music crackles to life. It’s familiar.Comforting. I hum along without realizing it, my voice rusty but still there. Still mine.
I press a hand to my stomach out of habit, then let it fall away. Not because I don’t want it, but because I don’t want everything to live there anymore. I think about how small my world became. How every conversation filtered back to babies. How every outing felt like a reminder. I stopped being Stevie and becameTrying-To-Conceive Stevie.
And that version of me was exhausted. Before bed, I pull out a notebook that isn’t a chart. No temperatures, cycles, or countdowns. Just blank pages. My hand hovers over the paper. Then I write.
I am allowed to want a child.
I am allowed to grieve the ones I lost.
I am allowed to be whole even if my body doesn’t give me what I hoped for.
The words look strange at first. Too simple and forgiving. I stare at them for a long time. Then I add another line.
I am more than my womb.
My breath catches. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to see that in ink. I close the notebook and turn off the light. The ache is still there. The wanting hasn’t vanished. But it no longer feels like it’s swallowing me whole. And for the first time since I asked for space, I think about Angel without guilt and anger.Just… love.
I picture him on that old clubhouse couch, stubborn and loyal and probably pretending he’s fine. I know him well enough to know he’s pacing; he’s blaming himself and trying not to text too much.
And for the first time, I see something clearly: he’s grieving too, not just the babies, but the version of me he watcheddisappear, the version of us that got replaced by numbers and fear. Maybe this space isn’t about pulling away; it’s about learning how to come back without losing ourselves again.
I don’t know what the next chapter looks like or if my body will ever cooperate. Or if we’ll adopt, or foster, or remain just us. But for the first time in a long time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel like a threat.
It feels like a possibility. And maybe that’s the beginning of something new. Not a baby, a guarantee.Just… me.Still here, whole, even in the waiting.
Chapter Sixteen
Angel
The therapist’s office feels smaller without Stevie. Not physically, just quieter. Like there’s no buffer between me and the shit I’ve been avoidin’. No place to hide behind being the strong one. The fixer. The man who keeps it together when everything else is comin’ apart.
The couch creaks when I sit down; I don’t lean back. Don’t relax into it. Feels wrong to get comfortable in a place built for unraveling.
Dr. Carina sits across from me with a notepad she barely touches. She’s got that same steady gaze she had during our joint sessions.Calm. Patient. Annoyingly perceptive.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the air with noise. That’s a skill, I think. Knowin’ when to shut up.
“So,” she says finally. “How are you holding up?”
I almost lie; that’s my first instinct: to say I’m fine, we’re workin’ through it, and the space is helpin’. I’ve said worse things to protect myself. But the truth’s heavier than that. It’s sittin’ right on my chest like a weight I can’t bench press away.
“I feel like I wasn’t enough,” I say, staring at the carpet instead of her. “Like I failed her.”
There it is. Raw.
She nods. “Tell me what‘enough’looks like to you.”
