Chapter Two Hundred and twelve

Malachi’s POV

I noticed it first in the small things.

The way Alicia’s eyes lit up when she talked about the foundation in a way they didn’t when we discussed what to make for dinner or whether Lia needed new clothes. The energy in her voice when she was on the phone with lawyers setting up the nonprofit structure, animated and engaged in a way she hadn’t been in months. The purposeful stride in her walk when she headed to meetings, her shoulders back and her chin up like she was going into battle for something that mattered.

She was coming back to herself. The woman I’d fallen in love with in that dark room three years ago, the one who’d had fire in her eyes even when Travis had tried to beat it out of her. That woman had been buried under months of pregnancy and new motherhood and the overwhelming exhaustion of caring for an infant, but she was emerging again, and it was beautiful to watch.

"You’re staring," she said one morning, catching me watching her over my coffee while she reviewed grant applications at the kitchen table, Lia contentedly gnawing on a teething ring in her lap.

"I’m admiring my wife," I corrected, taking another sip. "There’s a difference."

"What are you admiring exactly? My unwashed hair? The spit-up stain on my shirt that I haven’t had time to change? My stunning lack of sleep?"

"Your passion. Your purpose. The fact that you’re changing lives while simultaneously keeping our daughter alive and relatively clean. It’s impressive."

She looked up from the papers, her expression softening in that way that still made my chest tight even after all these months together. "Thank you for this. For supporting it. I know it means less time with Lia, less time being the perfect domestic wife—"

"Stop right there," I interrupted, setting down my coffee and moving around the table to crouch beside her chair so we were eye level. "You’re not less of anything. You’re more. More engaged, more alive, more yourself than you’ve been since Lia was born. That makes you a better mother, not a worse one. Makes you a better wife, not a worse one. Don’t ever apologize for having purpose beyond these walls."

"Not all men would feel that way," she said quietly, her free hand coming up to touch my face, her fingers gentle against my jaw. "Most would want their wives focused entirely on home and family."

"Then most men are idiots who don’t deserve the women they have," I said flatly. "You’re brilliant, Alicia. You have skills and experiences and perspectives that can help people who desperately need it. Why would I want you to waste that? Why would I want you to be less than everything you can be just to satisfy some outdated notion of what a wife should do?"

"Because it means you have to do more," she pointed out. "More childcare, more domestic responsibilities, more of the work that used to be considered women’s work."

"Good. I should be doing more anyway. She’s my daughter too. This is my home too. Partnership means sharing everything, not you carrying the entire burden while I do whatever I want."

Lia chose that moment to throw her teething ring on the floor and immediately start crying about its absence, as if the brightly colored piece of rubber hadn’t just been in her hand two seconds ago. I retrieved it, wiped it off, handed it back to her. She grabbed it with both hands, stuffed it in her mouth, and went back to gnawing contentedly.

"See? Equal partnership," I said, earning a laugh from Alicia that made the whole exchange worth it.

But later that day, after Alicia had left for a meeting with the lawyer finalizing the foundation’s nonprofit status and I was alone with Lia, I felt the full weight of what I’d committed to.

Lia was having what Sophie cheerfully called "a day," which apparently meant she was cranky and fussy and refused to be happy about anything. She didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to play. Didn’t want to be held but screamed when I put her down. Didn’t want her pacifier but cried without it.

"What do you want?" I asked her after the third failed attempt to soothe her in as many minutes. "Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you."

She responded by spitting up on my shirt and then crying harder, as if offended that I’d been in the way of her stomach contents.

I didn’t know what else to do at that point that’d calm her down.

I changed her. Changed myself. Tried feeding her again. Tried rocking her. Tried the swing that usually calmed her down. Tried putting on the music that sometimes worked. Tried everything I could think of while she cried and cried and cried.

This was harder than running a criminal organization. Harder than managing volatile personalities and dangerous situations. Harder than anything I’d done in my entire life.

Because I couldn’t fix this with money or power or threats. Couldn’t intimidate a four-month-old into compliance. Could only try things and fail and try again while she cried and I felt progressively more useless.

"Please," I said after an hour of this, holding her against my shoulder and patting her back while she screamed directly into my ear. "Please just tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong."

She didn’t tell me. Just kept crying while I walked circles around the living room, feeling sweat bead on my forehead despite the cool temperature, my shirt damp with various baby fluids, my head starting to pound from the noise and stress and overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

This was what Alicia did every day. This was her life while I worked on business deals and convinced myself I was contributing equally because I changed diapers and did night feedings.