With Derek, there was something.
Not perfection. Not instant maturity. Not some dramatic transformation that erased years of avoidance.
But there was a relationship.
There was a son who had failed me badly in one important moment, understood it later, and was trying—awkwardly, imperfectly—to show up differently.
With Brianna, I still was not sure.
We existed in the same orbit politely.
If I saw her, I spoke. She spoke back. We did not fight.
There was no warmth between us.
For a while, I thought I should grieve that. Then I realized I was grieving an idea more than a real relationship.
Some losses are not sudden. Some are simply the moment you finally describe the truth accurately.
Last month, Derek called me.
His voice sounded careful.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
“All right.”
“Brianna’s pregnant.”
I sat down.
He told me the baby was due in February.
For a second, I could hear the nervousness in him. He did not know whether I would hear the news as joy, danger, leverage, or another future obligation.
I understood why.
“I’m glad,” I said.
And I meant it.
There are people who would expect me to say the baby changed everything between Brianna and me.
It did not.
A new baby is not a magic eraser.
But a baby also was not responsible for what happened at Easter.
Derek cleared his throat.
“Do you want to be involved?”
It was a careful question.
I gave him a careful answer.
“I’d like to be involved in whatever way feels right and healthy for all of us.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“That sounds good.”
We left it there.