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By Root 845 0

there with that ring on your finger, looking so sad. So beautiful. . . And I’m remembering our early days when we were broke and in school and splitting Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner and . . . and when you were pregnant with Ruby and eating two of those lasagnas by yourself.” He stares into space with a faint smile.

“I was eating for two,” I say, the line I used despite the fact that I was actually eating as if pregnant with triplets.

He continues, a faraway look in his eyes. “And I’m wishing . . . I’m wishing that I could somehow get you back. I want you back, Tessa.”

I shake my head, feeling profound sadness for myself and the kids—but also, for the first time, for Nick.

“It won’t be the same,” I say.

“I know,” he replies.

“It will never be the same,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “But maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?” I ask hopefully.

“Maybe it can be better,” he says—which is exactly what I wanted him to say. “Can we try and find out? Can we try for Ruby and Frank? Can we try for us?”

I feel myself start to crumble as he stands and pulls me to my feet, taking both of my hands in his. “Please,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can,” I say, tears spilling down my face. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you. Even if I wanted to.”

He starts to hold me, then stops, as if realizing he hasn’t yet earned that right. Then he whispers my name and says, “Let me help you.”

My tears continue to flow, but I do not tell him no. Which, of course, we both know is very nearly a yes.

“I can’t make any promises,” I say.

“But I can” he says.

“You did that once,” I say, my voice cracking.

“I know. And I’ll do it again. I’ll do it every day. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me one more chance.”

One more chance.

Words that my mother heard, more than once. Words that women debate. Whether you can forgive and whether you should trust. I think of all the judgment from society, friends, and family, the overwhelming consensus seeming to be that you should not grant someone who betrayed you a second chance. That you should do everything you can to keep the knife out of your back, and to protect your heart and pride. Cowards give second chances. Fools give second chances. And I am no coward, no fool.

“I’m so sorry,” Nick says.

I envision him on our wedding day as we exchanged our vows, hearing his words: Forsaking all others as long as we both shall live.

That was the way it was supposed to be.

That didn’t happen.

Yet here we are, two children and a broken promise later, standing before each other, just the way we stood that day at the altar, with equal parts love and hope. And once again, I close my eyes, ready to take a leap of faith, ready for the long, hard road ahead. I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but then again, I never really did.

“Can I make you breakfast?” he says. “Eggs, sunny side up?”

I look into his eyes, nod, and nearly smile. Not because I’m happy—or hungry. But because my husband is home. Because he knows that sunny-side-up eggs are my favorite. And because I believe that, buried beneath disappointment and fear, anger and pride, I just might find it in my heart to forgive.

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