Chapter 16
Episode 16
Our life starting to get better and better everyday we rise up and give God thanks
The morning light spills through the kitchen window in a buttery stream, catching the dust motes that dance above the stove where oatmeal bubbles softly. Our son sits between us at the table, strapped into his high chair, his chubby fingers curled around a spoon he insists on wielding himself. Half the oatmeal ends up on his bib, some in his hair, a smear across his cheek, but the triumphant grin he flashes makes it all worthwhile. I watch him—this tiny person who arrived like a second sunrise—and feel a swell of gratitude so immense it presses against my ribs.
My partner reaches over and squeezes my hand. His palm is warm, calloused from the new job he loves, the one that came after the months of fear. His eyes meet mine, soft and still a little amazed. “We made it,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.
I nod because words feel too small for the weight of what we’ve carried together. The job loss, those long afternoons of silence. The hospital scares, the way his hand trembled in mine during the midnight dash. The ghost of his father that haunted him for so long—standing behind him in every mirror, whispering that he’d fail. All of it feels now like a distant storm, one we weathered in a leaky boat that somehow held. Every morning, we rise and give thanks. Not in a loud, performative way, but in the quiet rituals that have become our bedrock: the shared pot of coffee before the baby stirs, the whispered prayers over his crib—thank you, keep us, hold us—the way we hold each other in the dark when old fears try to creep back in, their claws dulled by time.
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