On Christmas Eve, my husband didn’t arrive, and when I called him, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “He can’t talk. He’s with his wife, giving birth to their baby.”

We stood in silence, the weight of the night still hanging between us.

As the day wore on, I thought about everything that had happened. Harold’s explanation made sense, but the hurt lingered. I couldn’t forget the fear, the sleepless night, or the sound of that woman’s voice on the phone.

But as I looked at Harold, sitting across the room with Denise in his arms, I felt the anger fading. His face was weary, his eyes filled with regret. He wasn’t perfect, but then, none of us were.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice soft. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just panicked. I was trying to be there for Caroline, but I should’ve thought about you and Denise, too. That’s on me.”

I nodded, the tension in my chest easing. “I know you were trying to do the right thing. I just… I need us to communicate better. I can’t go through a night like that again.”

“We will,” he said, his voice steady. “I promise.”

Later, as I cradled Denise, I watched Harold fix the lights on the tree. The night had been messy, painful, and imperfect. But as I kissed Denise’s tiny forehead, I realized real love wasn’t perfect. It was understanding, forgiveness, and the choice to keep going.