Chapter 7 - THE DAY ETHAN LEARNED TO WAIT
By the time I reached thirty-five weeks, Ethan had learned three things about pregnancy.
The baby didn't care about his schedule.
I didn't care about his money.
And a father who wanted to be involved needed to know how to show up without being invited into every part of the mother's life.
He was getting better at the third.
Not perfect.
Better.
Every Thursday evening, he called at seven.
Not six fifty-nine.
Not seven thirty.
Seven.
We discussed appointments, preparations, and whatever I wanted to share.
Sometimes we talked for an hour.
Sometimes five minutes.
Sometimes I didn't answer.
He never called fourteen times afterward to demand an explanation.
Progress.
He had also stopped sending unsolicited gifts.
The first time he saw the nursery I'd arranged in my new apartment, he looked genuinely surprised.
Soft green walls.
White curtains.
Secondhand wooden dresser.
A crib I'd selected myself.
A small rocking chair beside the window.
"You did all this?"
"Jo helped."
His eyes moved around the room.
"I could have bought you something bigger."
I stared.
He caught himself immediately.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"Good."
He smiled faintly.
Then looked at the crib.
"Can I build something for her?"
I frowned.
"What?"
"A bookshelf."
I almost laughed.
"Ethan Blackwood builds bookshelves?"
"Apparently, Ethan Blackwood is about to find out."
Two weekends later, he arrived carrying lumber, tools, and the expression of a man who had negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts but had never personally used a spirit level.
Jo watched him work for fifteen minutes.
Then whispered:
"Should we call someone?"
"No."
"I think he's installing it backward."
"I know."
"Are we going to tell him?"
"Eventually."
Ethan heard.
He looked up.
"I can hear you."
I smiled.
"Then you should also hear that the top shelf is upside down."
He stared at it.
Then closed his eyes.
Jo nearly fell off the sofa laughing.
It was the most ordinary afternoon we'd spent together in years.
And that was what made it hurt.
Because ordinary had always been what I wanted.
Not a private jet.
Not a penthouse.
Not a husband whose name made strangers uncomfortable.
Just someone who would spend an afternoon assembling furniture badly because a baby needed somewhere to keep her books.
At thirty-six weeks, my blood pressure began climbing.
Not dangerously at first.
But enough for my doctor to increase monitoring and order additional tests.
A week later, the results and repeated readings prompted a discussion about delivery rather than continuing the pregnancy indefinitely.
My doctor explained the options.
We made a plan.
I called Ethan.
"I'm being admitted tomorrow."
He went silent.
"Why?"
I explained.
He listened without interrupting.
"Are you frightened?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me there?"
I closed my eyes.
That question.
The one he was finally learning to ask.
"Yes."
His breathing changed.
"Then I'll be there."
"No security entourage."
"None."
"No business calls in the room."
"None."
"And if I ask you to leave—"
"I leave."
I smiled despite myself.
"Good."
Then he asked:
"Can I tell you something?"
"Yes."
"I'm terrified."
I laughed softly.
"Welcome to the club."
Labor was not cinematic.
It was exhausting.
Painful.
Messy.
And almost aggressively uninterested in Ethan Blackwood's reputation.
He arrived at the hospital carrying my overnight bag.
He had checked its contents three times.
I discovered this when he admitted he had added six pairs of socks.
"Why?"
"I didn't know how many you'd need."
"For what?"
He stared.
"I panicked."
For the first time in months, I laughed until my stomach hurt for a reason unrelated to contractions.
Ethan stayed beside me.
Held my hand when I wanted it.
Stepped away when I didn't.
Brought water.
Adjusted pillows.
Asked nurses questions.
Then stopped asking questions when I told him the nurses already had enough to do.
He was learning.
Slowly.
At 11:43 p.m., after hours of labor and medical support, our daughter arrived.
She weighed six pounds, four ounces.
Had a furious little cry.
And a thick patch of dark hair that made Ethan look as though he'd personally arranged her genetics.
The nurse placed her on my chest.
Everything around me blurred.
Her tiny hand opened against my skin.
I touched her cheek.
"Hi."
My voice broke.
"Hi, sweetheart."
Ethan stood beside the bed.
Completely still.
For several seconds, he looked almost frightened to move.
Then the nurse asked:
"Would Dad like to hold her?"
He looked at me.
I nodded.
"Yes."
The nurse helped him settle into a chair.
Then placed our daughter in his arms.
Ethan looked down.
And began crying.
Not the restrained tears of a powerful man attempting to preserve dignity.
He cried so hard he had to stop speaking.
The nurse quietly stepped away.
I watched him.
The same man who had once looked at our marriage and said:
Fine.
Now couldn't find a single word while holding something money had never been able to promise him.
Eventually, he whispered:
"Hello, Wren."
Our daughter opened one eye.
Then closed it again.
Ethan laughed through his tears.
"Not impressed."
"She's definitely mine."
I said.
He looked at me.
"Thank you."
I shook my head.
"Don't thank me for giving you a child."
"Then what should I thank you for?"
"For listening when I told you how I wanted this handled."
He nodded.
"Thank you for letting me be here."
That was better.
I remained in the hospital while the medical team monitored my recovery and Wren's health.
Ethan did not leave until I told him to rest.
Even then, he asked whether I needed anything before going.
The following morning, he returned with breakfast.
Not flowers.
Not diamonds.
A breakfast sandwich from the little bakery I liked near the hospital.
And a cup of decaffeinated coffee prepared exactly the way I ordered it.
I stared.
"You remembered."
His expression changed.
"I remember a lot of things."
I looked down.
"Then why did you forget my birthday?"
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Ethan put the coffee on the table.
He did not defend himself.
"Because I remembered the wrong things."
I looked at him.
He continued.
"I remembered meetings."
"Debts."
"Who owed me money."
"Which people were dangerous."
"How to make everyone in a room listen."
His voice tightened.
"And I treated the person I loved most as though she'd always be there when I finished."
I stared at our daughter.
Wren slept peacefully in the bassinet.
"She won't wait forever either."
I said.
Ethan nodded.
"I know."
Then he reached into his pocket.
His grandfather's watch.
The one he'd asked me to send to his office after our divorce.
He placed it on the table.
"My grandfather gave me this when I turned eighteen."
I looked at it.
"I know."
"I used to think it reminded me that time was money."
He smiled sadly.
"That's what I told myself, anyway."
I picked it up.
The old watch still worked.
Its narrow second hand moved steadily around the dial.
Ethan looked at Wren.
"I don't want her growing up believing she's supposed to be grateful for whatever time I have left after everything else."
My throat tightened.
"Then don't let her."
He nodded.
Simple.
Difficult.
Possible.
For the first time, I believed he truly understood the difference.
But fatherhood was only one part of the future Ethan had to confront.
May you like
Because the criminal investigation was still moving.
And our daughter had been born into a world her father was finally trying to leave.
