Page 60 of One Little Mistake

I sigh and shrug, but something in me snaps. I yank the device back from him with a sudden burst of irritation.

“It’s normal for me right now. No big deal. What did you want, anyway?”

I hate that he’s seeing me like this—weak, fragile, so far from the girl I used to be.

No manicure, no decent clothes, extra weight from the pregnancy still clinging to me. And now this: too weak to even take care of myself properly.

“The delivery service isn’t running,” Max says, ignoring my outburst. “So dinner’s not happening. I can’t cook. At all.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I blurt out, already feeling guilty.

I should’ve thought of it myself. The least I can do is thank him for everything he’s done—for his hospitality, for putting up with me.

“Sit down,” Max mutters irritably, pressing his hand firmly against my shoulder to stop me from getting up. “I’ll figure something out.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the bedroom without another word.

I pull the blanket up over myself, sinking into the bed, and without even realizing it, I fall into a deep sleep. I wake up to the sound of a baby crying somewhere in the apartment.

My heart jumps—it’s Tim. How long has he been crying while I was passed out like this?

I shoot up from the bed, and dark spots dance before my eyes. The dizziness is still there, clinging to me.

Holding onto the wall for support, I follow the sound down the hallway, open the door to the nursery—and freeze in the doorway.

Max doesn’t see me. He’s holding Tim in his arms, gently rocking him, trying to calm him down. And it looks… it looks so incredibly sweet that my heart twists painfully in my chest.

It hits me then. I miss this.

A man.

A partner.

Someone in the house, in my life.

I think about how I set up the nursery all by myself. How I hired movers, arranged for the furniture to be built, found someone to paint the walls. How, in the final months of my pregnancy, I struggled to carry groceries up to the apartment alone. How now, I’m facing endless sleepless nights—just me and my son.

And it all could have been so different if I had a loving husband by my side.

“Easy there, buddy,” Max murmurs. “You don’t want to wake up Mom, right? You’re a little man, not a crybaby, so pull it together, huh? Don’t even think about getting a song out of me.”

The man is really trying his best to calm the baby down, but it’s not working.

“Probably needs a diaper change,” I say, giving away my presence, and carefully take my son from him. “Hey there, little guy, Mommy’s here. Shh, don’t cry, sweetheart.”

While I’m fussing over Tim, Max stays close, quietly watching everything I do.

“There’s a studio available on the sixth floor,” he suddenly announces, catching me off guard. “I got the landlord’s number. You can call tomorrow if you want to check it out.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, throwing him a confused glance.

“No big deal.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts awkwardly, like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure if he should.

“Did you manage to cook something?” I jump in, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Found some dumplings in the freezer,” he says almost apologetically. “Tasted them. Pretty close to homemade.”

“If they were in the pink bag, then yeah, they are homemade. I made them a few weeks before Tim was born,” I smile.

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