Page 63 of The Space He Left
Great idea. I'll get the stacking rings and books. Maybe we should go together to pick out a few more things?
There had been a long pause before his response:Are you sure? I don't want to make you uncomfortable.
It's for Emma. We should both be there.
The trip to the toy store had been our first time alone together in months, and it had been surprisingly natural. We'd moved through the aisles discussing Emma's developmental needs, her current interests, and what would be appropriate for a one-year-old. Jack had been thoughtful and engaged, asking good questions about Emma's progress since his last visit.
"She's really responding to music lately," I'd told him as we looked at musical toys. "She dances whenever I put on anything with a beat."
"She gets that from you," Jack had said with a small smile. "You were always humming around the house."
It was a casual reference to our shared past, delivered without the weight of regret that had characterized all our interactions for months. For a moment, it had felt like we were just Emma's parents, shopping for our daughter's birthday.
Now, the morning of the party, I was hanging streamers in the living room when Jack arrived with his arms full of supplies.
"Need help with those?" he asked, setting down bags of plates and cups.
"I've got it. The balloons are in the kitchen if you want to start on those."
We worked in comfortable silence, occasionally asking each other's opinion on placement or Jack offering to reach high spots. It felt domestic in a way that was both comforting andheartbreaking – a glimpse of what we might have been if Jack hadn't made the choices he'd made.
"The house looks great," Jack said as we surveyed our work. Yellow and white balloons clustered in corners, streamers draped artfully from the ceiling, a banner reading "Happy 1st Birthday Emma!" stretched across the mantel.
"We make a good team," I said, then immediately regretted the words. They felt too loaded, too hopeful.
But Jack just smiled. "We always did."
Emma looked like a princess in her yellow birthday dress, complete with tiny matching shoes that she kept trying to pull off her feet. At one year old, she was pulling herself up to stand, cruising along furniture, and babbling constantly in what sounded almost like real conversation.
"Dada!" she said when she saw Jack after her nap, reaching out with both arms.
"Hey, birthday girl," he said, lifting her from her high chair. "Are you ready for your big day?"
I watched him with Emma. When Emma babbled at him, he responded as if she were having a real conversation. When she dropped her toy, he patiently picked it up again and again. When she got fussy, he walked her around the room, pointing out decorations and guests, keeping up a gentle stream of commentary that soothed her.
This was the Jack I'd fallen in love with – attentive, caring, fully engaged with whatever was in front of him.
The guests arrived in waves – both sets of grandparents, Sam, my friends, followed by neighbors who'd become invested in Emma's well-being during Jack's absence. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to celebrate Emma, but I was aware of the curious glances directed toward Jack and me. This was the first time many of these people had seen us in the same room since before Emma's birth. I knew he'd had to endure the samegossiping everywhere he went in the months after her birth, just like I had in the months before.
I watched Jack navigate these social dynamics with grace. He included himself in conversations when invited, but didn't push for attention. He helped with hosting duties without overstepping what everyone assumed was my role as the primary organizer. He seemed to understand that his place here was something he was earning back, not something he could take for granted, and he conducted himself accordingly.
"You and Jack seem to be getting along well today," my mother said, appearing at my elbow as we watched Jack help Emma navigate a toy piano that played different sounds.
"We're both focused on Emma. That makes it easier."
"He's different from what he was before. Calmer."
She was right. The old Jack had always had an energy about him, a sense that he was thinking about three things at once. This Jack seemed content to be exactly where he was, doing exactly what he was doing.
I found myself studying Jack as the party continued, looking for signs of the man who'd left me for Madison. But what I saw was someone completely focused on Emma's joy, on making her first birthday special, on being the father she deserved.
When it came time for cake, Jack stood beside me as we sang "Happy Birthday" to Emma, who clapped her hands and babbled along in her own version of the song. When we helped her blow out the candle, Jack and I leaned in from either side, our faces close enough that I could smell his familiar cologne, could see the fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a year ago.
"Make a wish, baby girl," I whispered to Emma.
"What should we wish for?" Jack asked, his voice low enough that only Emma and I could hear.
The question felt loaded with meaning, but Emma solved it by reaching for the candle flame, and we quickly helped her blow it out before she could burn herself.
