Chapter 17 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
A year after surgery, Sophie’s scan showed something new.
Tiny.
Probably scar tissue.
Probably.
That word almost destroyed us again.
I became quiet.
She noticed.
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“No.”
She tapped her chest.
“You’re leaving in here.”
I wanted to deny it.
Then stopped.
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“How?”
“Badly.”
I laughed.
She smiled.
“Just do it badly and stay.”
So I did.
We waited for repeat imaging.
During those two weeks, we filled out foster-care paperwork.
Not because we were distracting ourselves.
Because life did not owe fear exclusive rights to our calendar.
The repeat scan showed scar tissue.
Nothing more.
Sophie cried in the parking garage.
Then said, “I want tacos.”
Apparently medical relief always made her hungry.
Three months later, a social worker visited our house.
She inspected smoke alarms.
Medicine cabinets.
Bedrooms.
The nursery was no longer white.
It was a soft green.
No crib.
No assumptions.
Just a bed, books, and a lamp shaped like a moon.
The social worker asked about our divorce.
We told the truth.
She asked about reconciliation.
We told the truth.
She asked if we were remarried.
“No,” Sophie said.
I said, “Not yet.”
Sophie turned slowly.
The social worker pretended to study her clipboard.
In the kitchen afterward, Sophie crossed her arms.
“Not yet?”
“I panicked.”
“That is your excuse for everything.”
“It has range.”
She tried not to smile.
Then I reached into the junk drawer.
Not my pocket.
Not a velvet box.
The junk drawer.
Her old wedding ring was inside because she had put it there while washing dishes.
I held it up.
“This is not a proposal.”
“Good.”
“I’m not ready to pretend nothing happened.”
“Good.”
“But someday, if you want…”
She took the ring from me.
“Ask better.”
Then walked away.
I stood there smiling like an idiot.
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