Page 93 of My Only

I forced a giggle and lifted my phone off the table, hoping—praying—there was something from Hassani. A reply at least… but nothing.

I quickly typed out another message, then deleted it before I could send it.

I wasn’t going to beg my husband to show up for me.

I sighed, setting my phone back on the table, gritting my teeth before exhaling the tension away.

The comments from my mom and Mrs. Franklin were innocent, yes, but they stung. The topic of babies had come up before, way back when Hassani and I started dating. But after we got married, they never brought it up again.

I had been thinking about it, though.

Ever since I met Bryant Greene and his wife, Zoe, at Hassani’s work social last year, the idea had lingered in my mind. For years, I told myself we had time. That we should just enjoy each other first.

But now that I was ready…

I wasn’t sure he was.

I worried that with all the work Hassani was doing, a baby would feel like nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Well,” I said, lifting my glass of wine to sip. “I’d have to have my other half around a lot more before I can make that kind of announcement, y’all.”

I was half joking and very serious, and I guess that was evident in my voice because instead of laughter, the table went quiet.

Mr. Franklin tilted his head, his brows furrowing again as he studied me.

Immediately noticing the shift in the room, I forced a nervous giggle. “I’m joking.” I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s a joke. Ha, ha? Remember those? Or do we not laugh at my jokes anymore?”

Mr. Franklin let out a low chuckle, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You telling me I need to sit my son down?”

“No,” I was quick to reply. “He’s good. We’re good. I just… I just really, really wish he was here tonight to meet Warren.”

And that part was true.

What I wouldn’t give to reach beneath the table, take Hassani’s hand, and squeeze it—to steady the chaos racing in my mind.

Because my mother had a boyfriend.

And she looked happy. In love, even.

It was kind of breaking my heart.

“Well, I look forward to meeting him,” Warren said, nodding with a smile. “I hear he’s working on a really big project.”

“A major one,” Mr. Franklin added, his grin stretching wide. “He’s the principal architect in charge of all the commercial and residential structures in the new village. Greene Gardens.”

Warren’s face lit up. “Get out of here! He’s working on that?!”

“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Franklin confirmed with a proud nod. “We’re so proud of him.”

“So very proud,” my mother added.

They carried on talking about Greene Gardens, and I just listened.

On the outside, it was a massive accomplishment. A huge feat.

But on the inside—the inside of my marriage—it was a string of canceled plans, broken promises, and empty “I’ll make it up to you” tours.

It didn’t feel so grand from where I was sitting.

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