It isn’t until this moment that I finally make a decision about him.

About us.

About what’s best for our family.

Ryle is amazing in so many ways. He’s compassionate. He’s caring. He’s smart. He’s charismatic. He’s driven.

My father was some of these things, too. He wasn’t very compassionate toward others, but there were times we spent together that I knew he loved me. He was smart. He was charismatic. He was driven. But I hated him so much more than I loved him. I was blinded to all the best things about him thanks to all the glimpses I got of him when he was at his worst. Five minutes of witnessing him at his worst couldn’t make up for even five years of him at his best.

I look at Emerson and I look at Ryle. And I know that I have to do what’s best for her. For the relationship I hope she builds with her father. I don’t make this decision for me and I don’t make it for Ryle.

I make it for her.

“Ryle?”

When he glances at me, he’s smiling. But when he assesses the look on my face, he stops.

“I want a divorce.”

He blinks twice. My words hit him like voltage. He winces and looks back down at our daughter, his shoulders hunched forward. “Lily,” he says, shaking his head back and forth. “Please don’t do this.”

His voice is pleading, and I hate that he’s been holding on to hope that I would eventually take him back. That’s partly my fault, I know, but I don’t think I realized what choice I was going to make until I held my daughter for the first time.

“Just one more chance, Lily. Please.” His voice cracks with tears when he speaks.

I know I’m hurting him at the worst possible time. I’m breaking his heart when this should be the best moment of his life. But I know if I don’t do it in this moment, I might never be able to convince him of why I can’t risk taking him back.

I begin to cry because this is hurting me as much as it’s hurting him. “Ryle,” I say gently. “What would you do? If one of these days, this little girl looked up at you and she said, ‘Daddy? My boyfriend hit me.’ What would you say to her, Ryle?”

He pulls Emerson to his chest and buries his face against the top of her blanket. “Stop, Lily,” he begs.

I push myself up straighter on the bed. I place my hand on Emerson’s back and try to get Ryle to look me in the eyes. “What if she came to you and said, ‘Daddy? My husband pushed me down the stairs. He said it was an accident. What should I do?’ ”

His shoulders begin to shake, and for the first time since the day I met him, he has tears. Real tears that rush down his cheeks as he holds his daughter tightly against him. I’m crying, too, but I keep going. For her sake.