“I want to be with you because I was born with this anxious kernel in me that whispers that I’m going to fall short. But when you’re there, when you’re looking at me with those big brown eyes, when you’re in my arms, when I hear you laugh—those whispers are silenced.

“I want to be with you because you knew who you were before anyone else, because some days I feel like I’m floating in space and still don’t know who I am, but being next to you is like always having steady earth beneath my feet.

“I want to be with you because the sight of the Eiffel Tower at dusk makes you weak in the knees, and because you see the world with a reverence that makes me realize how much I’ve missed by walking through life blindly. I want to be with you because when I think of happiness, I picture that day we took a boat ride down the Seine, and I watched the wind whip your hair in your face. I think of how beautiful your smile was that day—how you rivaled the sun—and how whole I felt just because you were by my side.”

I open my mouth, and he presses an index finger to my lips. “I’m not done.”

I laugh, but I think it might sound like a cry. Maybe it’s both. “Okay.”

“I want to be with you because you stepped back to let me be the kind of father I thought I needed to be, because you believed I could make the right choices for me and my daughter. I want to be with you because life is short, and I want to spend the rest of mine with you by my side. And because you’re my family. No matter what you decide or where you go or where you live, you’re a part of me the way Abi’s a part of me. You never stole my heart. You tucked a piece of yourself into it and made me better.”

“You know you can’t say stuff like this to pregnant women.” I sniffle and look around desperately. “I don’t even have a tissue.”

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “I brought it for you. I figured I’d either need it for your tears or my bloody nose—which I’d probably deserve.” He shrugs. “Can I go on?”

I wipe my face and nod.