He was awful at first.
He held the bottle wrong. Bought the wrong diapers. Burned toast. Put detergent in the dishwasher once. Complained that he was tired exactly one time.
He shut up.
Later, he admitted his phone had not been unreachable the whole time. It died the first night, but once he charged it and saw my calls, he panicked. He knew he had gone too far. He knew I was probably in labor or already at the hospital. And instead of coming home, he kept drinking because facing me felt harder than hiding.
He had been cowardly.
So no, I did not forgive him quickly.
He had to earn every inch back.
To his credit, he tried.
Not in some dramatic, overnight way. In slow, irritating, practical ways.
He still slipped sometimes. I saw the old Jack in little moments. A bad joke when things got uncomfortable. A look like he hoped effort for one day should count as redemption for all of it. But Rose would raise one eyebrow, and he would correct himself.
Days turned into a week.
Then another.
He started getting up before I asked.
He cleaned without announcing it.
He watched videos about diaper rash and feeding schedules.
He learned how to swaddle. Badly at first. Then well.
One afternoon I woke from a nap and heard his voice in the nursery.
I stood in the doorway and saw him rocking our daughter.
“I messed up before you even knew me,” he whispered to her. “But I’m going to do better. I promise.”
I didn’t say anything.
Rose appeared beside me so quietly it nearly made me jump.
She looked into the nursery and said, under her breath, “Good. Shame is finally reaching the brain.”
I laughed for the first time in days.
