Page 67 of Love Beyond Repair
Young and in love. And now we’re here—wherever here even is. Co-parents. Strangers. Something in between.
I set the dish on the coffee table, then reach for my laptop. It takes a few minutes to find the right login of an old Facebook account I barely touch. Hers is still blocked. I remove the ban, my curiosity winning out. I need to know more.
She’s not updated much lately, but the posts go back years, covering Liam’s life and Bex’s own youth. I scroll through her timeline. So much of her life has happened without me. Now, I’m trying to piece it all together from a screen, when I should have been there. Photos from college, wine-stained grins, and eyeliner smudges. A blurry shot of our friend group on graduation day. Her in a classroom, holding a thank-you card from a student. Her and Max in a pub garden. Old photos uploaded to modern day social media years after they were taken.
And then Spain. 1997. The two of us sitting on a cracked stone wall, her feet in the water, laughing at something I can't remember. I’m sunburnt. She’s beautiful. She always was, even when she didn’t believe it.
Part of me is surprised she posted it, but it’s in a folder called memories alongside the other snapshots of her past.I don’t really know when the idea forms, it’s just there, quiet and decided. I open a new folder and start saving the images, one after the other.
This isn’t for her. It’s for me. To remember the girl I lost, and start getting to know the woman she became without me. I lean back on the sofa, the laptop warm on my legs. One more click. One more photo. Each one teaching me a little bit more about who Bex is now.
Chapter thirty-four
Ben
Twelve months have passed since Liam landed in my life. If you’d told me that I’d have another child, I’d have laughed in your face. But Liam fits like a missing puzzle piece.
Co-parenting with two mothers has its challenges, but I think we’ve created a routine between us. Bex and Kelsey don’t speak directly to each other. All communication goes through me. It’s like I’m mediating an ongoing family argument, and in some ways, I am. But the whole situation is my fault.
The kids split their time between homes. Co-ordinating four schedules—dance, soccer, after-school clubs—is chaos. My apartment is buzzing and filled with laughteralmost every day of the week. I rarely get a day on my own, but I’m happier than I’ve been in years.
Bex will be dropping Liam off at my place tonight. My heart races whenever she knocks. To me, she looks her best dressed in her running gear with her hair up, makeup-free, and relaxed. Our interactions are brief but civil. Today, I want to try to move our friendship forward, if it can be called that. It feels like it can.
The door buzzes, and I almost run to go let them in. She’s standing on the doorstep, her hair loose, dressed in simple jeans with a white t-shirt. Liam holds her hand, looking up at his mummy, then turns to me.
“Daddy!” he shouts, jumping into my arms.
Being called that by him is something I cherish. It took time for him to feel confident enough, but when he did, it meant the world. I remember the day like it was yesterday.
We were around six months into our relationship. It was a lazy Sunday morning, and my two boys were watching cartoons. Liam glanced over from the other couch, smiled, then said what I’d been dying to hear.
“Daddy, can you pass the remote?”
That was it. No big event or fanfare. That single question changed it all, and I went from a father to a daddy in a beat. It broke something open in me. Not just pride, but shame too. That I hadn't been there when he first learned to speak, when he needed a daddy most. I’d missed so many firsts I’ll never get back.
Holding him close, I look over his shoulder. Bex’s eyes are locked on us. I give her a soft smile.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” The question sounds simple enough, but it’s monumental for me. I hope she accepts. She hesitates.
“I’ll stay for one,” she says. She’s wary, but we all walk into the apartment together.
My kitchen is open plan onto my living area. I wander over and flick the silver switch on the kettle. It springs to life with the buzz of the element heating up. Bex sits on the sofa as Liam brings his toys from his bedroom.
“Can I show Mummy my new bedroom, Daddy?” he asks, hopeful. I decorated it for the boys last week.
“Of course.”
He leads her by the hand down the hall to the room he shares with Ollie. Luckily, both of them have dinosaurs on the brain, so it was easy to redecorate the room. Liam is describing what’s his, and I can hear Bex’s excited voice. Then, both reappear with huge grins.
Watching Bex interact with our son is rousing feelings I thought were long gone. She’s so sweet and attentive to him, even now, when she looks more tired than usual. There’s a stillness I’ve never seen before. A heaviness.
Something about the way she carries herself lately has me uneasy. She’s slower to smile. Quieter. Like something’s worrying her, but she’s not ready to share. I don’task. I wouldn’t know how to. Our relationship is complex, caught between old feelings and new situations.
I won’t delude myself into believing that this was easy for her to accept. She had Liam to herself for years. Now, she has to share him with all of us.
He spends time away from her with me and his siblings, doing exciting things. She probably has to sit and listen to him gush about it all in detail when he gets home.
In the beginning of our shared parenting, I tried too hard to win him over. Our first six months were filled with exciting trips out and gifts. Guilt gnawed at me for missing so much.
