After parking next to Callan’s car, Clay took a cleansing breath and walked to the front door. Hesitantly stepping inside, the house seemed quiet. He hung up his coat, took off his boots, and wandered into the kitchen.
Snickerdoodles, his favorite cookie, sat on a plate. He bit into one, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the rich cinnamon flavor. They were so much better than the cookies his mom made. He lifted the lid on the slow cooker and saw a pork roast, surrounded by potatoes and carrots. His wife was an amazing cook when she had time to do more than slap together something fast to eat.
Callan wasn’t in the family room so he checked their bedroom where he found her sleeping. Tears clung to her eyelashes and dried on her cheeks. He was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t suffer from dehydration if she didn’t stop crying.
A box sat on the floor and all sorts of papers and things were scattered around her on the bed. He noticed she held something in her hand. Bending closer, he saw it was the little dog trinket he’d bought her at the fair that long ago day when he fell completely head over heels in love with her. He had no idea she’d kept it or that it meant so much to her.
Gently taking it out of her hand, he set it on the nightstand, picked up all the other remnants of her memories and tugged a quilt over her.
Clay realized there was a lot he had to learn about his wife. He placed everything back in the box and took it with him into the family room. He settled into his recliner and gave thoughtful attention to each item. Some he remembered, some he didn’t recognize.
When he pulled out the dried bouquet, fresh pain constricted within his chest. Callan loved pink roses. She’d treasured the special vases and loving notes he sent her to mark special days. He started sending her the red ones out of spite when things between them went south. How those flowers must have irritated and wounded her.
As he rubbed his hand across his eyes, Clay began to think there would be no end to the things he would regret doing in the past few years. It had all started when Callan began her event planning business.
Maybe if he’d been supportive when she’d wanted to start the business instead of fighting her every step of the way, she would have felt like she could trust him enough to tell him she was pregnant, to share her grief and her loss.
It was easy to blame Callan for the mess their lives had become. In effect, she’d lied to him by not telling him she may never be able to have children from the beginning. However, Clay knew he had a hand in creating many of their problems.
There was no good reason why he’d so completely rejected her business. He knew she would excel at it, knew she loved it. It could have been jealousy that Callan would have less time for him. The way he behaved, it was no wonder Callan had shut herself off and pushed him away.
If he’d known how she really felt about herself and how afraid she was of losing him, he would have handling things so differently, would have treated her so differently. He would have made it clear he meant forever when he made that commitment to her.
Clay made a vow to himself at that moment to make sure Callan knew every day going forward just how precious she was to him.
Riffling through the box, he discovered a plain envelope in the bottom and opened the flap. The grainy black and white image made no sense to him at all. He turned it this way and that then finally flipped it over. On the back, someone had written, “Baby Matthews, 14 weeks.”
He turned it over again and studied the ultrasound photo of a baby. His baby. Fresh pain tore through his heart. Not just for the baby he never had the opportunity to know, but also for the pain Callan forced herself to bear alone.
Clay stared at the photo and finally distinguished the outline of a head, arms, and legs. The loss of the baby suddenly seemed a hundred times more real, more devastating. A tear rolled down his cheek as he prayed for help to get through this heartache.