I did.
The next day, Trevor finally asked why Frank had come.
“When your mother needed me, I chose myself,” Frank answered. “I’ve spent thirty-two years wishing I could change that decision.”
He looked toward the nursery.
“When Katie called, I realized I could not repair my family. But perhaps I could help save yours.”
That evening, Trevor found me folding baby clothes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you understand.”
He admitted that he had believed fatherhood began when he held the babies.
“But it began when you needed me more than I needed myself.”
I looked at him.
“What exactly did you need a vacation from?”
He could not answer.
“You wanted a break from the life I was already living,” I said. “I was carrying our daughters, preparing for surgery, and facing all of it while you packed sunscreen.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“What do I do now?”
I handed him a burp cloth.
“Changing diapers is not your apology. It is your responsibility.”
He waited.
“If you want forgiveness, figure out the rest without asking me to provide instructions.”
Over the following weeks, Trevor stopped making promises.
He began noticing things.
Empty medicine bottles.
Laundry waiting to be folded.
