Page 47 of Her Ex's Father
What they think doesn’t matter. But their tone—that easy contempt—sends a slow heat crawling under my collar. I force my hands to stay in my pockets when they want to close into fists.
“I’ll tell you what people should think,” I say quietly, cutting across their false laughter. “That I married a woman extraordinary enough to deserve better company than the three of you. She is my wife. She is carrying my child. That is all that matters.”
The silence is sharp, brittle as ice despite the warm day.
Then the boutique door opens and Maddie steps out, sunlight catching her hair, the soft blush scarf looped around her neck against the chilly spring morning. She looks pleased with herself, unaware of the men watching her, unaware of the venom they’ve already spilled.
“Sorry, Ben, I?—”
I don’t let her finish. I slip my arm around her waist, draw her against me, and press my mouth to her temple. Not a polite kiss but one that lingers, warm, proprietary, making my claim clear. She gives a startled laugh, cheeks flooding with color, and glances up at me as if to ask what the hell I’m doing.
I only stare back at the men. “Perfect timing,” I murmur into her hair.
The group scatters quickly, muttering excuses, the satisfaction wiped from their faces.
When they’re gone, Maddie looks at me with wide, suspicious eyes. “What was that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Which means something.” She tilts her head, studying me, but I lace my fingers with hers and lead her toward the baby boutique before she can press. The last thing I want is to expose her to high society’s vultures.
The store is a shrine to domesticity. Pastel walls. Rows of impossibly tiny shoes. Cribs dressed like magazine spreads. My chest tightens as Maddie drifts among them, her hand brushing over soft fabrics, her face bright with curiosity. A flash across my eyes, and it’s Georgiana: not in this store, but a different one, looking over her shoulder with a smile.
“Oh, Ben, look at this.” Maddie holds up a knit hat with bear ears. Her smile is so hopeful I can barely stand it. “Can you imagine?”
I can. Too easily. A small body wrapped in something so soft, fragile breaths against my chest. The image blindsides me, dredging up memories of Derrick—tiny fists, milk-drunk eyes, the smell of powder and skin.
“Derrick used to sleep best with a clock in the cradle,” I say before I can stop myself. “The tick sounded like a heartbeat. Calmed him every time.”
Her face softens. “That’s sweet.”
Sweet, yes. And cruel. Because the boy who once gripped my finger with perfect trust is now a man who can’t look at me without contempt. The reminder slices deep, and I turn away, pretending interest in a stroller with too many levers.
Maddie doesn’t press. She drifts on, humming to herself, holding little clothes against her body as if testing them. Her optimism is relentless, like sunlight through cracks.
By the time we leave, her arms are full of bags—blankets, onesies, that ridiculous bear hat. She’s glowing, flushed from the walk and the thrill of planning. I carry the heavier bags, silent, caught somewhere between the ghost of the past and the impossible future.
At home, the quiet is a relief. The house breathes around us, stone walls holding the warmth of the fire I had lit earlier in the living area. Maddie shrugs off her coat, scarf slipping loose, and stretches with a soft groan.
“You were quiet,” she says, watching me.
“Am I not allowed to be?”
She rolls her eyes gently. “You’re always allowed. But today… it felt different. Heavier.”
I study her. The way she moves through this house, no longer tentative but not entirely at ease. The way she meets my gaze, open where I am closed. She unsettles me without trying.
“I was remembering Derrick,” I admit finally. “When he was a baby.”
Her expression shifts, tender and cautious. “You must have been a wonderful father.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “You’ve met my son. Does he strike you as the product of wonderful fatherhood?”
She steps closer, hand brushing my arm. “Children make their own choices, Ben. That doesn’t erase what you gave him.”
The words scrape at the hollow place in me. I don’t answer. There’s so much she doesn’t know, so much I don’t know how to talk about: what Georgiana’s death did to Derrick and me. How it shoved us apart. How I’m sure it’s part of why he can’t set foot here; because it’s the place she breathed her last, willingly, the place she wrote him a note explaining that everything would be okay.
But he couldn’t have feltokayafter losing her. I didn’t, even with a year to prepare—it wrecked me. What if I lose somethingall over again, with Maddie and the baby? A loss like that, I know, would break me.
