The months that followed were surreal. Tyler stayed present with our sons, attended therapy, prenatal appointments, and school projects. He began to resemble the man I once loved—the one who sang to our boys and held my hand when I was afraid. At the ultrasound, seeing we were having a daughter, he broke down, realizing the daughter he would raise could face the same pain he had inflicted.
When our daughter was born, Tyler was there. Hands shaking as he cut the cord, whispering that she was perfect. I saw remorse in every gesture, a desire to repair years of damage. But I have learned that regret is only a beginning, not an endpoint.
People ask if we will live together again. The boys ask most often, eyes full of hope. I smile softly and say only: Maybe.
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