Page 49 of The Space He Left
So why, when Madison called, did “us” become “me”? Why had I made it a solo mission?
I dropped my head into my hands, the answer hitting me with the force of a physical blow.
Because with every other crisis, I was just Jack Henderson, the good neighbor. The solution was the goal. But with Madison, it wasn't about the solution. It was about me. It was about the eighteen-year-old kid who had failed to keep his promise to his first love. Rescuing Madison wasn’t a community project; it was a chance to retroactively fix my own past, to soothe a decade-old bruise on my ego.
And Harper couldn’t be a part of that. Her presence, her competence, her partnership would have turned it into what it should have been: a normal, healthy act of spousal support for an old friend. It would have diluted the potency of the rescue. I hadn’t just been manipulated by Madison; I had actively,if subconsciously, compartmentalized the situation because I needed the validation of being her only hero. I hadn’t invited Harper along because I didn’t want her there.
The realization was sickening. I hadn't just been a fool; I had been profoundly selfish.
Now, three months later, I was slowly learning to recognize those patterns. The urge to fix things, to be the hero, to make grand gestures – Dr. Cox was teaching me to sit with discomfort instead of immediately trying to solve it.
Which was why, when Harper had texted through the co-parenting app last week that Emma needed a new car seat, I'd resisted the urge to rush out and buy the most expensive one I could find. Instead, I’d researched safe, affordable options and sent her the information, along with an offer to contribute to the cost. It was a small, conscious choice to be a partner, not a hero.
The app was torture and salvation in equal measure. It allowed us to coordinate Emma's care without personal conversation, but it also meant that every interaction was reduced to logistics.
Emma has a doctor's appointment on Tuesday at 2 PM.
She's been fussier than usual – might be teething.
Needs more diapers, size 2.
No good morning texts, no shared jokes, no glimpses of Harper's thoughts or feelings. Just the bare minimum communication required to co-parent our daughter.
But at least I got to see Emma twice a week. Supervised visits at my parents' house, since they were still in town and Harper trusted them in ways she didn't trust me. Those hours every Tuesday and Thursday were the highlight of my week, the only time I felt like myself instead of a man-shaped hole in his own life.
Slowly, those visits started to... expand. It began a few weeks after the letter arrived. I was at my parents’ house on a Saturday,helping Dad fix a leaky faucet in their guest bathroom, when I heard Harper's car pull up. My blood ran cold. I practically dove under the sink, my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced she’d see my truck, think I was violating the agreement, and call her lawyer. But then I heard Mom greet her, the murmur of their voices, and the sound of Harper’s car driving away.
Mom appeared in the doorway a minute later, holding a sleeping Emma in her arms. "Harper needed to run some errands. She asked if we could watch the baby for an hour."
I scrambled out from under the sink. "I have to go," I said, already wiping my hands. "If she comes back early and sees me—"
"Jack," Mom said, her voice calm but firm. "Sit down. Your daughter is here."
It happened again the next week. I was dropping off some paperwork for Dad, and he just opened the door and handed me Emma, saying, "Your mom's in the shower. Hold her for a minute." He saw the panic on my face and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "Son, it's a coincidence. Harper drops her off sometimes. You can't control when she does that, and nobody expects you to run and hide in your own parents' home. Just be a father to your daughter."
It still felt wrong, like I was getting away with something, but I couldn't deny the desperate joy of those stolen moments. I never sought them out, never asked when Emma might be there. But if I were there and she arrived, I would stay. I held her, I fed her, I soaked up every second, my love for her warring with the constant, low-grade fear of being discovered.
The rest of the time, I relied on updates from the app and carefully filtered news from my parents and Sam, who would only answer my questions about their well-being with details Harper had approved.
"How's our little princess today?" I asked Dad as I arrived for Tuesday's visit. Emma was in his arms and gurgling happily.
"Getting bigger every day," he said, as I took her carefully. At three months old, she was more alert, more responsive, starting to smile and make eye contact. She looked like Harper but had my blue eyes, and every time she looked at me, I felt the weight of everything I'd missed.
"She's starting to hold her head up more," Mom said, hovering nearby with the protective instincts of a grandmother. "Harper says she's been sleeping through the night more consistently."
My parents had become Harper's unofficial support network since her parents had left, stopping by her house regularly to help with Emma, offering babysitting. They were careful never to push for reconciliation, never to suggest that Harper should forgive me, but they maintained relationships with both of us that allowed me glimpses into Emma's daily life.
"How's Harper doing?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.
"Tired but strong," Mom said. "She's amazing with Emma. Natural mother."
I'd expected that. Harper had always been nurturing, patient, and good with children. But knowing she was doing it alone, that she was handling night feedings and diaper changes and all the exhausting realities of new motherhood without support from her husband, made my chest ache with guilt.
"She mention anything about... how she's feeling? About the future?"
"Jack," Dad's voice was gentle but firm. "Don't put us in the middle. Harper's focusing on Emma right now, and that's what she should be doing."
He was right, but the not-knowing was killing me. I had no idea if Harper was considering reconciliation, if she wasplanning to file for divorce. The app kept our communication strictly about Emma, and I respected that boundary even though it meant living in complete uncertainty about my marriage.
