I shake my head, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

“I asked him to meet me here so you’d feel more comfortable talking to me,” Ryle says. “He’s here for you, he’s not here for me.”

I glance back at Marshall and he nods. It gives me enough reassurance to enter the apartment. Ryle is still somewhat in shock, which is understandable. His eyes keep meeting my stomach and then flicking away like it hurts to look at me. He runs two hands through his hair and then points down the hallway while looking at Marshall.

“We’ll be in the bedroom. If you hear me get . . . if I start to yell . . .”

Marshall knows what Ryle is asking him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As I follow Ryle into my bedroom, I wonder what that must be like. To have no idea what might set you off or how bad your reaction will be. To have absolutely no control over your own emotions.

For a brief moment, I feel a minuscule amount of sorrow for him. But when my eyes fall to our bed and I remember that night, my sorrow diminishes completely.

Ryle pushes the door shut, but doesn’t close it all the way. He looks like he’s aged an entire year in the two months it’s been since I’ve seen him. The bags under his eyes, the furrowed brow, the sunken posture. If regret took human form, it would look identical to Ryle.

His eyes fall to my stomach again and he takes a slow step forward. Then another. He’s cautious, as he should be. He reaches out a timid hand, asking for permission to touch me. I nod softly.

He takes one more step forward and then places a steady palm against my stomach.

I can feel the warmth of his hand through my shirt, and my eyes snap shut. Despite the resentment I’ve built up in my heart toward him, it doesn’t mean the emotions aren’t still there. Just because someone hurts you doesn’t mean you can simply stop loving them. It’s not a person’s actions that hurt the most. It’s the love. If there was no love attached to the action, the pain would be a little easier to bear.

He moves his hand over my stomach and I open my eyes again. He’s shaking his head, like he can’t process what’s happening right now. I watch as he slowly sinks to his knees in front of me.

His arms snake around my waist and he presses his lips against my stomach. He clasps his hands around my lower back and presses his forehead against me.

It’s hard to describe what I feel for him in this moment. Like any mother would want for her child, it’s a beautiful thing to see the love he already has. It’s been hard not sharing this with anyone. It’s hard not being able to share this with him, no matter how much resentment I hold toward him. My hands go to his hair while he holds me against him. Part of me wants to scream at him and call the police like I should have done that night. Part of me feels for that little boy who held his brother in his arms and watched him die. Part of me wishes I would have never met him. Part of me wishes I could forgive him.