He said, "I never wanted children," as we were cleaning up the paint trays. His words came in like an open window in the winter, quiet but unmistakably cold, and I froze with a paint-streaked rag in my hand, halfway to wiping the edge of the roller tray.
I was facing away from him, but I could feel the change in energy, the way his voice had dropped just a little, as if even he didn't like the way it sounded aloud. I turned slowly, but he wasn't looking at me; he was standing close to the window, staring out into the city skyline, his arms folded across his chest, paint smudged on his forearm like a mark he hadn't noticed—or didn't want to.
"I see," I replied gently, voice even though my chest clenched.
Because what was I expected to say?
Ethan, you came to that realization a bit late.
Sarcasm wasn't what stopped me. Something else was involved. Something that tightened with each heartbeat, like a wire coiled around my ribcage.
"Why?" After a moment, I inquired. Not in a furious manner. I simply need to know.
He took a while to respond. As though he were chewing on a memory that was too bitter to bear, his jaw twitched.
At last, he responded, "I just didn't." "It wasn't planned."
Plan.
His favorite word was there once more. Life, deconstructed into a plan. Individuals, confined to categories. And infants? blatantly unwanted interruptions.
I ought to have been incensed.
Instead, I only experienced pain.
Because he wasn't telling me the whole truth even now.
It was evident in his eyes and the restless tapping of his fingers on his arm. Those were not the only words. A reason he was sufficiently frightened to keep quiet.
I muttered, "All right," and returned my attention to the supplies. The stillness between us stretched like a tight rubber band as I cleaned the brush under warm water.
He moved to the rear of me. I could sense his warmth.
He responded softly, "I'm not saying I still feel that way." "All I'm saying is that I used to."
I shut off the faucet. The room was filled with the sound of water dripping.
Without turning, I continued, "Ethan, I'm not expecting you to feel anything on command." However, you will become a father. Furthermore, this infant—your child—deserves more than tact and silence.
He didn't respond. However, he had already left when I eventually glanced over my shoulder.
Additionally, the recently painted nursery felt completely cold for the first time.