Page 36 of The Breaking Point

He looks at me then, eyes glassy. “I put my hand in the incubator. And you God, you grabbed my finger. Your whole hand wrapped around it. So tiny, but you held on. Strong. That was the happiest day of my life. That moment, I knew you were going to make it.”

He leans back against the pillow, eyes drifting toward the window. “Somewhere after that… I forgot that feeling. I don’t know when exactly. Maybe it was during that first year, raising you mostly alone while your mom recovered. Or maybe I was just selfish. Tired. Afraid.”

His voice drops a little. “But I stopped feeling that feeling. That connection. And I didn’t fight to get it back. I let distance grow between us until it felt like it had always been there.”

He turns his head, meets my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I was hoping we could… start over.”

“What are you apologizing for?” I ask, standing up.

He blinks, caught off guard. “For… not being there for you?”

“When?” My voice is sharp. “For not being there for me when? I’m thirty-four years old. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“Please, Kate.”

“No.” I start pacing. “You don’t get to say sorry and wipe the slate clean. You don’t get to feel better just because you finally said the words.”

He opens his mouth, but I keep going.

“Thank you for not letting me die when I was a baby. Truly. I mean that. But that doesn’t mean I owe you my forgiveness. That doesn’t undo birthdays you forgot, recitals you missed, the years I spent trying to earn a glance you never gave me.”

I stop at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, heart pounding.

“God, you men are all the same. You come with an apology dressed up as an excuse. Then expect me to say what, ‘it’s okay’? ‘I forgive you’? You left a hole in me that I’ve spent my whole life pretending wasn’t there. And now you’re sorry?”

I scream, “You don’t get to be sorry.”

A nurse rushes in, breath slightly caught. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Wilson just had major surgery. We can’t have his heart rate spiking.”

She doesn’t look at him. She looks at me. And by the flicker in her eyes, I know she heard everything.

“I can stay with him,” she offers gently. “If you’d like to get some coffee.”

But it isn’t really a suggestion. It’s a gentle push. A quiet way of sayingyou need to leave nowwithout making it sound cruel.

I don’t argue. I don’t say anything at all. I just nod, get up, and walk out.

I don’t go far. I grab a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a cheap little diary from that magical hospital shop that somehow sells everything from headphones to yoga mats. A pen too. Dr. Brett said to write my feelings. Fine. I’ll write.

I start with the first time I noticed the difference. The shift. I think it was second grade. My mom picked me up from school. It had been my first day, and I was bursting. I had stories, drawings, a funny thing the teacher said, and I couldn’t wait to tell her.

I got into the car, started to speak, and she cut me off. Told me to be quiet, she had to call Dad. On speaker.

I waited, maybe thinking I could still share something. I tried to jump in once, something small about recess. My dad told me not to interrupt when two people were talking. Not harsh, just... dismissive.

Then we picked up my sister. The second she got in the car, she started telling them she’d made some team. She hadn’t even buckled her seatbelt. I remember feeling like I should warn her not to talk over them. But I didn’t have to.

They cheered. They congratulated her. Said we’d celebrate with pizza that night. I remember the way it felt. That sinking, dull ache in my chest. Even then, I knew. I knew I wasn’t celebrated the same way.

I write about the time they paid for my driver’s ed instead of teaching me. Not because they were busy. Just because they’d already taught a kid how to drive. That was the excuse a lot.We’ve already done it.

They said it with school trips. With award ceremonies. With graduations.

It’s nothing special.

Except it was. It was to me.

And all I ever did was try to act like it wasn’t. Like I didn’t care. Like I understood.

---