“Well, just so you know, your childbearing years end.” I pick up another image of him. This time, he has a football jersey on. “Although men can have kids longer than women.”

“Do you want more kids?” he asks.

“Yes.” My answer is quick and unequivocal. “It’s a part of the reason why . . .”

I don’t want to say that I’m averse to wasting time again. Cole knows this. He knows I want a future with someone who wants Ethan and me long term. But do I want more kids? Yes.

I set the picture back down. “It’s partly why I don’t date.”

And yet . . . his mother thinks we need this time alone, which isn’t necessary since he’s leaving.

“I do want more kids. Obviously, I can do that without a man. I’m doing that now. But I want to raise a child with someone—really have a family.”

Cole sits on the arm of the sofa. “What was your family like growing up?”

My heart sinks in my chest as I think back on my life with my father. It always surprises me how I can go back to the little house on the road by the park with a simple flip of a mental switch.

I can smell the cigarette smoke, taste the vodka hidden in the orange juice. I can hear the train blasting its horn one block over and feel the floors creak as my father goes back and forth from the garage to the kitchen to get more to drink.

“I think the word ‘family’ would be an inaccurate choice,” I say, turning away from him. “My mother died in childbirth. My father . . .” How do I paint this picture accurately but also fairly? “I don’t know. He did his best, I suppose, but his best was shit.”

Cole’s gaze is heavy on my back. I don’t turn around to face him, or else I won’t be able to talk about my father. I can’t say these things and look him in the eye. It’s embarrassing and definitely not flattering, but he’s leaving anyway. So what does it matter?

“My father loved me, but he loved vodka a little more,” I say, distancing myself from the memories to save myself the pain. “His disability check from a back injury brought in just enough to cover our bills but not enough to cover them and his increasing bottle habit. So, by the age of nine or ten, I was figuring out if we were going to have water or electricity that month. It’s a tough call for a kid to make.”

“Palmer.” The sofa whines as Cole stands. “That’s terrible.”

My cheeks flush. I keep my eyes averted from him. “Well, it’s my truth. And, like you said earlier, I survived and I’m stronger for it.”