He knew. And still—he stayed. He stayed through sleepless nights, birthday parties, scraped knees, and bedtime stories.
He never once accused me. Never hinted at what he knew. He simply loved her.
Loved us. Two days later, when he came home from his trip, Layla ran into his arms as usual. He lifted her easily, his eyes meeting mine over her shoulder.
And in that glance, I knew—he knew that I had finally uncovered the truth. That night, lying beside him, I turned over the choice again and again. Confess and risk destroying everything?
Tell Ethan and ignite chaos? Or protect the life Stephen had already chosen to protect? The next morning, I cooked waffles, hands trembling as I poured batter.
Stephen came in, smelling of soap, hair damp, shirt wrinkled. He wrapped his arms around me, kissed my neck, and said softly, “Morning, Pipe. Waffles?
You’re spoiling us.”
I forced a smile. “Felt like making something nice.”
He stirred sugar into his coffee, then added, almost casually, “I used to wonder if I’d regret staying.”
My chest tightened. He looked at me, steady, sure.
“But I don’t. Not for a second.”
I turned back before he could see the tears in my eyes. Right then, I chose.
Not the messy confession, not the destructive truth—but the quiet decision to meet the forgiveness he had already given, to honor the love he continued to show. Some truths are too sharp to name without cutting everything apart. Some love speaks without words.
Sometimes it’s just two people in a kitchen, making waffles, choosing—again and again—to stay.
