Chapter 2: Kitchen Promises

“You’re still pregnant, stop doing these things.”

I gently took the spoon from Natalie’s hand and helped her sit down. She let out a soft laugh, that kind of laugh that brightened the kitchen no matter how dark the day. I could see the baby starting to show beneath her sweatshirt—a small promise of new beginnings. I set a steaming mug of chicken noodle soup on the counter, wishing I could do more for her than just fuss over soup and vitamins.

“Ryan’s got all that junior year stress. I thought maybe some soup would help.” She squeezed my hand, her eyes sparkling with hope. “Ryan finally stopped fighting us having a baby. Do you think he’ll stop fighting us getting married, too?”

She said it with such hope, her voice trembling just enough to break my heart. For a moment, the kitchen felt like a different world—like we were just two parents worrying about their kids, not two people trying to piece together a house full of cracks.

I squeezed Natalie’s hand and nodded, trying to match her optimism. After a year of fighting with Ryan, he’d finally stopped openly opposing me and Natalie having a child. Every dinner, I’d ask if he wanted a little brother or sister, and he’d slam his plate down, sometimes shouting that Natalie was wrecking our family and the baby was a mistake.

The memory stung—Ryan’s words like barbed wire, his plate crashing against the table. I remembered the look Natalie would give me, brave but with a tremor in her smile. I always wondered if she regretted getting involved in this mess, but she never let me see her break.

Seeing him so angry made me want to yell back—to remind him I’m his father and he can’t run my life. But every time, Natalie would swallow her pain and gently stop me.

She’d touch my arm, her voice barely a whisper: “Let him feel what he needs to, Derek. He’s hurting.” I envied her calm, her patience—wondered if I’d ever have even half her strength.

“Derek, don’t yell at him. I’m okay.”

“I can handle a little pain. Just don’t let it ruin your relationship with your son.”

Her words always hung in the air, softening my anger. I’d bite my tongue, nod, and watch Ryan storm off. Sometimes I hated feeling like I’d lost control—like this house was a stage for old wounds. But Natalie’s plea always pulled me back.

I reached out and stroked Natalie’s belly, my eyes apologetic. “But we already have a baby.”

The touch made it all feel real—life growing inside her, something new and hopeful. I wondered if Ryan could ever see it that way. If we could ever all sit around the table and laugh again.

Natalie shook her head, tears brimming. “I don’t care about anything else, Derek. As long as I have you, I’ll be okay. I just worry about our baby…”

She sniffled, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. The sadness in her voice cut through the warmth of the kitchen. I pulled her close, promising myself I’d find a way to make this right for her—and for us.

So, I tried everything to reason with Ryan for almost a year. Today, he finally relented. He just put down his plate and fork, nodded, and said, “Whatever.” Then he went back to his room without looking back.

I watched his retreating figure, half expecting another explosion, but instead there was only the soft thud of his door. I wondered if this was a truce or just a new kind of war. Still, relief washed over me. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding for months.

Seeing my son not shouting or making a scene like before, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. Now, all I wanted was to pull Natalie close and celebrate together. To be honest, with her, I felt young again—that reckless feeling of risking everything for love, of being high-spirited and defying the world.

There was a thrill in it, like late-night drives with the windows down, the world wide open. For a minute, we let ourselves believe the past couldn’t touch us, that second chances were real. Natalie’s laughter, the soft glow of the dining room, even the hum of the baby monitor—everything felt possible.

Natalie caught me lost in thought and gave me a playful look. “Both kids need to get some sleep. They have to get up early for school tomorrow.”

She nudged me under the table, a conspiratorial grin on her lips. The way she said ‘kids’—like we were already a family, no gaps or cracks. I couldn’t help but smile, letting her optimism wrap around me like a warm blanket.

Ryan is my son with my late wife, while Emma is Natalie’s daughter, who she raised mostly on her own. After Natalie and I got together, I arranged for Emma to transfer to the same high school as Ryan. Now they’re both juniors at Maple Heights High, where everyone knows everyone and Friday night football is religion. I hoped they’d watch out for each other.

I spent days on the phone with the school counselor, promising Emma would fit right in. I hoped those halls could offer some normalcy—something we didn’t have at home.

And now, with Natalie and I about to have a child of our own, excitement buzzed through me. But the image of Ryan’s silent back flashed in my mind, leaving me uneasy. Ryan’s always been obsessed with his mother’s death, resenting me and Natalie. But the dead can’t come back, and the living should move forward, right? I tried to believe my late wife wouldn’t want us trapped in grief forever.

I stared at the old family photo by the fridge—Ryan grinning, his mother’s arms around him, the three of us before everything broke. The silence after dinner felt sharper, like grief wasn’t finished with us yet. But I tried to believe my late wife would’ve wanted us to heal—would’ve wanted Ryan to find his own way out of the shadows, just like I had to.

Natalie leaned on my shoulder, her voice sweet. “So when will we have our wedding ceremony?”

She asked with hope in her eyes, her hand slipping into mine. I squeezed it, the world narrowing to just us for a moment. The clock ticked, dishes cooled on the table, and for a second, all the chaos faded.

I nestled with Natalie, feeling full of love, completely unaware that the door to Ryan’s room had quietly opened again. It seemed as if a dark, unreadable gaze was fixed on us… Or maybe it was just my imagination.

The house creaked, and I could swear I saw movement in the hallway mirror—a ghost of a figure watching, listening. I shook off the chill, blaming the old air conditioner cycling on, but some part of me wondered what it would take for Ryan to open his door and join us again.