Chapter 13 - THE PRICE OF A SECOND CHANCE
Vincent stayed in New York for three months.
He rented an apartment nearby.
Not in my building.
Not across the street.
Close enough to help.
Far enough to respect my space.
He attended pediatric appointments.
Learned how to change diapers.
Bought groceries.
And discovered that a newborn did not care whether his father controlled half of Chicago.
Gabriel cried whenever he wanted.
Vincent learned to live with that.
One evening, I found him asleep on my sofa.
Gabriel lay safely in the bassinet beside him.
A bottle stood on the table.
A burp cloth hung over Vincent's shoulder.
I smiled.
Then noticed something.
A small envelope beside his hand.
My name was written on it.
I recognized his handwriting.
I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
The letter he had written months earlier.
The one he never sent.
I read every word.
Then sat beside him.
Vincent woke.
Saw the letter.
And went still.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“You loved me?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
His eyes filled.
“Because I was afraid.”
I stared.
“Of what?”
He looked down.
“That you'd realize I wasn't worth loving.”
My heart broke.
For three years, I had believed Vincent didn't love me.
Now I understood that he had been too afraid to admit he did.
But fear didn't erase what he had done.
I folded the letter.
Then said quietly:
“Vincent, loving me wasn't enough.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“You have to respect me.”
“Yes.”
“Trust me.”
“Yes.”
“And never make decisions about my life without asking.”
He looked at me.
“I promise.”
I studied him.
Then whispered:
“Promises are easy.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
May you like
I looked toward Gabriel.
“Show me.”
