Part Three
That evening, Colin found me folding tiny sleepers in the nursery.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I kept folding. "I know."
"No." He shook his head. "I don't think you actually do yet."
"I don't?"
"I thought fatherhood started the moment I held them." He looked through the window at the two of them sleeping. "It started the day you needed me more than I needed a break from you."
It started the day you needed me more than I needed a break from you.
I finally looked up at him fully.
"What exactly did you need a vacation from, Colin?"
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
I answered it for him. "You wanted a break from the exact life I was already living, every single day, without the option to leave it."
His eyes filled.
"I'm sorry, Nora. I mean it."
"I was carrying our daughters. Getting ready for surgery. Terrified out of my mind — and doing all of it while you were packing sunscreen."
He nodded. Every word landed exactly where it needed to.
After a while, he asked, quietly, "What do I do now?"
I handed him a clean burp cloth. "This isn't your apology, Colin. It's just your job. It always was."
This isn't your apology. It's just your job.
He waited, like there might be more instructions coming.
"If you actually want forgiveness," I said, folding the last sleeper into the drawer, "figure out the rest yourself. I'm not writing you a manual for it."
Weeks passed.
Colin stopped making speeches about how sorry he was and started simply noticing things instead. Bottles that needed washing. Laundry piling up. Medicine running low in the cabinet.
He became the first one awake, most nights, when either girl started crying.
Silas visited every other week after that, always calling first, never assuming he was owed a standing invitation.
One Saturday, Colin's old golf group texted him. Beach trip next month? Same resort as last time!! 🏖️
He smiled at the message, one daughter asleep on his shoulder, the other giggling on her play mat while I got ready for my first afternoon out with friends since the girls were born.
Colin deleted the invitation without a second thought and typed back four words instead, to no one in particular, mostly to himself.
Already exactly where I want to be.
Already exactly where I want to be.
A knock sounded at the door a moment later. Silas, standing on the porch, duffel bag over one shoulder.
Colin picked up the little luggage tag from the counter, smiled at it, and handed his father the second diaper bag without being asked.
Silas laughed. "Does this resort ever actually close?"
"Best booking I ever made," Colin said, and meant it.
I finished getting ready while the two of them settled the girls into the living room together.
For months, I'd quietly wondered what would happen if one of the girls cried while I was too exhausted to move, or simply needed a few hours that belonged only to me.
Now, for the first time since the day I found out I was carrying twins, I already knew the answer.
I picked up my purse, kissed both daughters goodbye, and walked out the front door without leaving a single instruction behind me.
