Chapter 3 - The Morning After
When the pale morning sunlight began to filter through the arched windows of the study, I was still sitting in the leather armchair, wrapped in a cashmere throw blanket with Eric’s letter clutched tightly in my hand.
I hadn't slept a wink. My mind was racing, vibrating with a fierce, protective energy I hadn't felt in over a year.
A soft rustling sound echoed from the hallway outside the study door, followed by the quiet, heavy pad of footsteps.
The door creaked open.
Eric stood in the doorway wearing a pair of faded flannel pajama pants, his hair sticking up in messy tufts and his shoulders slumped under the weight of utter exhaustion. He looked like a man walking toward his own execution.
He stopped dead when he saw me sitting at his desk.
“Clara,” he whispered, his voice cracking, rough with sleep and panic. “You’re... you’re back.”
I didn't say anything right away. I slowly stood up from the armchair, smoothing down the silk blouse I had worn on the redeye flight from New York.
Eric took a hesitant step into the room, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. “I saw your suitcase in the foyer. And... and I saw that the letter on the desk has been opened. Clara, please. Before you say anything, let me explain the legalities, let me call the adoption attorney—”
“Eric,” I interrupted, my voice remarkably steady.
He flinched, bracing himself for the explosion he was certain was coming. “Yeah?”
“Why didn't you call me?” I asked softly, taking a step toward him.
Eric swallowed hard, looking down at the hardwood floor as if he couldn't bear to meet my eyes. “Because you were in New York closing the biggest corporate acquisition of your career. Because every time I tried to dial your number, my throat closed up. I thought... I thought if I told you over the phone that I had unilaterally brought a baby home after everything we went through with the miscarriage, you would hate me. I thought you’d pack your bags for good.”
“You idiot,” I murmured, closing the distance between us until I could smell the familiar scent of cedarwood soap and morning coffee on his skin.
Eric looked up, his dark eyes wide and vulnerable. “Clara—?”
“Did you really think I would walk away from a child who needs us?” I asked, reaching up to gently cup his rough, unshaven cheek. “Did you really think my heart was that small?”
A massive shudder wracked Eric’s frame as the tension of the past seventy-two hours finally drained out of him. He let out a ragged, broken gasp and pulled me into his arms so fiercely it knocked the wind out of my lungs. He buried his face in my neck, his shoulders shaking as he wept silent, heavy tears of pure relief.
“I was so scared,” he whispered against my skin, his arms tightening around my waist like he was afraid I would vanish into thin air. “I was so terrified of losing you, but I couldn't walk away from him. He looked at me at that hospital in Columbus, Clara... he looked at me like I was his entire world.”
“I know,” I whispered back, running my fingers through his thick hair. “I know, my love.”
Suddenly, a tiny, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway from the master bedroom.
Eric pulled back, a look of sheer panic crossing his face. “That’s him. He’s waking up. He probably needs a bottle, and I haven't sterilized the nipples yet, and God, I don't even know what I’m doing—”
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I smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached all the way to my soul for the first time in fourteen months. I grabbed his hand, interlacing my fingers tightly with his.
“Come on, Mr. Whitaker,” I said, tugging him gently toward the hallway. “Let’s go meet our son.”
