Before I Let You Go(101)

My arms loosen around her, and I watch as she walks through the gate.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to push me away, or if it’s just happening automatically and you can’t stop yourself,” Sam says quietly.

I’m sitting on the floor of the nursery, with paint samples and my iPad on the floor in front of me. I look up at Sam, and I swallow hard. I heard him come up the stairs when he walked back in the door from work, and I pretty much froze. I knew a conversation was coming that was going to hurt.

“I was scared that Mom was going to ask if she and Robert could take Daisy. I just said what I had to, to make sure she didn’t get any ideas.” I’m making excuses, and we both know it. Sam exhales.

“Lexie, I want to keep Daisy here, too. It didn’t even cross my mind that we wouldn’t. I was going to talk to you about it once the dust settled after the funeral. But can you imagine if I had just announced that I’d decided we were going to do it? Without consulting you?”

I should be relieved that we’re on the same page, but I’m not. Instead, I’m overcome by guilt.

“We had this whole life planned out for us,” I whisper, and I shrug at him helplessly. “How does Daisy fit into that?”

“It’s pretty simple, actually. The position in our lives that our first child was going to fill is now already taken. Done. Plan updated,” Sam says wryly. “You love that baby, and I love her, too. It’s a no-brainer. My only bone of contention is my fiancée’s nasty habit of making major life decisions without consulting me. There’s a serious pattern forming here, and it’s making me nervous.”

“I was going to talk to you about it,” I say defensively. “There just wasn’t time.”

“We have to make time for that kind of discussion, Lexie,” Sam says impatiently. “I’m so sick of hearing you say that. Yes, I work long hours—well, so do you, normally. We’ve never had communication problems before. As soon as Annie came back into our lives, you started shutting me out, and I just don’t understand why.”

“I haven’t shut you out,” I say abruptly. “I—”

“That’s exactly what you’ve been doing,” Sam says with a slightly incredulous laugh. “I can’t think of a better term to describe it. You’ve been through hell, and all along, I’ve been tagging behind trying to support you. Not once in all of this have you asked me for help, or even accepted it without a battle when I offered.”

“I’ve accepted your help—”

“When I’ve insisted. Or you’ve had no choice.”

“But I—”

“Lexie, can you think of one time in the last two months when you’ve reached out to me voluntarily and asked me for advice, or a hug or practical assistance? Just one time.”

I think back over the weeks that have passed, and in each of the memories that flit past me, Sam is hovering, offering, waiting, agreeing to help when I asked, but he’s right—I have asked only when I had no alternative.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper.

“I know, Lex. I know it’s habit, and I kind of understand why. But it has to stop now. We’re parents now. We need to be a team, right?”

He stares at me, waiting for my response, and I’m swamped by a sudden realization of how lucky I am to have a man like Sam in my life. I love him in a way that I never expected—with gratitude and with admiration and with a passion that I feel so sure we can cling to even as the years turn into decades. I don’t want to undermine any of that at this early stage just out of a stubborn habit for independence.

“Right.”

His serious expression lightens just a little, and he murmurs, “You know, with two doctors for parents—that kid is going to be so smart. We’re going to need to work together to stay ahead of her.”

The joke shatters the last of the tense atmosphere between us, and I laugh weakly. Sam points to the paint swatches.

“We’re officially making this a nursery, then?”

“Well, Daisy obviously doesn’t want gray walls in her room. I thought maybe a nice crisp yellow would work well.”

“And by that do you mean, ‘Sam, cancel golf on the weekend, we have painting to do’?” he asks. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. Sam wants to help. Sam is pleased when I ask him to. I’m already learning. I can do this.

“There are so many things we have to figure out. I only have a few weeks of leave left, so we need to look into a nanny, and I need to talk to someone to see how we go about making this permanent and we should get Daisy added to our insurance and . . .” I trail off and groan, suddenly overwhelmed. “And we need to paint this room.”

“Make a list, honey. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”

Sam’s calm patience is exactly what I need. I tilt my head at him and I smile.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“See how awesome I am?” he says pointedly. “And this is precisely why you should talk to me about this stuff.”

“Got it,” I assure him, and this time, I really think I have.

A few days later, a police officer comes to my front door. He’s holding a small box.

“Alexis? You probably don’t remember me. I came to the trailer when your sister . . .” He trails off, and I nod.