Chapter 22: Wren

It had been eight months already, and by now, my baby bump was quite glaring, as was the attitude and unnecessary outbursts that came with it.

Even I wouldn’t want to cope with me if I were my husband, but he understood the situation, and no matter how unbearable I was—I was really unbearable—he wouldn't snap at me. Afan would just smile, pull me to himself, and kiss my forehead.

Whenever he did that, the feeling of his lips on my skin was always comforting, soothing my pain. He'd done an awesome job at putting up with the attitude attached to my pregnancy.

More often than not, I'd overreact to stuff that, usually, I would sweep under the rug, like that one time when he made a harmless statement. Under a different circumstance, I would have just laughed, but for some reason, I hadn’t found it funny at all.

I sat on the bed, my back leaning against the frame as I watched a few baby prep videos on TV. He was supposed to be watching with me because that was what the baby wanted, but he kept falling asleep every now and then.

So, in order to keep him awake, I requested a foot massage, and while he was at it, I paid rapt attention to the video I was watching.

This was at three o'clock in the morning.

In the last three minutes, his massage had been sloppy, like he was losing his grip, and I didn't like his sudden slowness. I was enjoying the feeling of his thumb pushing into my feet. He was good at this, his movements fluid and remarkable, easing me of my stress and anxiety.

Now, he was starting to get sloppy, and although, deep down, I knew my annoyance was selfish, I just couldn't help it.

Afanasy yawned, stretching and groaning slightly. “God, I'm exhausted,” he whispered under his breath.

My brows arched at his statement. “What?” I questioned, my tone stern and serious.

“Oh, I just said that I was exhausted,” he replied innocently, unaware of the scowl on my face.

I pulled my legs back as he tried to resume, my gaze fixed on him. He jerked his head up, squinting at my impulsive reaction, wonder flickering in his eyes.

“You're exhausted?” I asked, tilting my head sideways. A pang of irritation went through me at his harmless words.

This was a trap, and it didn't matter whether he recognized it or not; I was going to make mountains out of this molehill.

He let out a soft sigh, rubbing his eyes. “That's…that's…that's not what I meant,” he said quietly, stuttering.

“Then what did you mean?” I questioned, my scowl deepening.

He looked at me, speechless, like he knew I was about to twist whatever he would say, and I could see the exhaustion in his bloodshot eyes, with dark circles underneath.

He lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It's 3:00 A.M., Wren. Can we not do this now?” His eyelids drooped, weighed down by fatigue.

I squinted, folding my arms across my chest. “So, that's what I am now? A troublemaker who forces you to watch endless baby preps with her at 3:00 A.M. and then asks you to massage her feet. Is that what you're trying to say?”

“Oh, my God!” he muttered, exasperated, rubbing his eyes

“Now, I'm unbearable. Classic.” I grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, lay on my side, and pulled the sheets over me, feigning annoyance.

He let an exhale, probably wondering what mess he'd gotten himself into.

I raised my head, a frown perched on my face. I felt a comical mix of frustration and longing. “The baby wants you to cuddle me.” My tone was flat, as though it was a fact.

Afan's lips curled into a smile as he snuggled under the sheets, his arm around me, fingers rubbing over my swollen belly.

My expression softened at his touch, and I plastered a wide smile on my face. Letting out a sigh, I was ready to fall asleep.

I hadn’t exactly been the most bearable human being on the planet during these past few months. However, my husband still, somehow, despite all of my attitude and mood swings, remained understanding.

Sometimes, I would demand specific foods, even at odd hours, and my husband, ever the caring man he'd become over the months, would go out of his way to get them. Sadly, ninety percent of the time, I would reject them upon arrival.

In all honesty, I wasn't doing that on purpose. I would crave a particular food, but the moment he'd bring it, I'd lose my appetite for it and crave something else.

At times, I would cry over trivial things, like running out of pickles. Maybe this was a result of my newfound obsession with a bizarre combination of peanut butter and pickles. Either way, I hated running out of either.

Once we were fresh out of peanut butter or pickles, I wouldn't care what time it was; I'd demand it, just like I’d sent him on midnight ice cream runs on several occasions.

Despite all my bad behavior under the guise of pregnancy, I felt honored, loved, cherished, and adored by my husband.

Afanasy had proven time and time again that he would do just about anything if it meant putting a smile on my face. He'd done what no one had attempted for me; he'd shown me the true meaning of love and affection—which was ironic, considering the type of man that he was.

Maybe all this attitude and the mood swings were because, deep down, all I wanted was to be pampered and spoiled.

After my mom had passed away and Dad hit the bottom of the bottle, I was forced to grow up fast, to take on responsibility at an early age. This meant that I didn't enjoy the simple luxury of care and affection.

It was a fact that pregnancies were different amongst women—everyone had a unique way of being affected by it. Our feelings, senses, and emotions were usually heightened during this period. In my case, my emotions were all over the place, craving that attention, love, and care that I'd missed out on all my life.

Afanasy must have understood that because he was handling the situation exceedingly well. My perfect gentleman.

However, only I was aware of this soft side of him. To the rest of the world, Afanasy was still the same cruel and ruthless businessman who shouldn't be crossed.

The way he was able to seamlessly find a balance between work and his private life was something worth emulation.

“Here you go.” His gentle voice brought me back to the present.

The sweet aroma of ginger tea wafted through the air, its heat enveloping the space around me as he sat beside me on the couch.

“Drink this. It'll help with the nausea,” he said, holding out a steaming cup.

It was exactly what I needed at the moment, but I didn't request it because I'd been working on my attitude and demands these past few days. I didn't want to abuse his understanding and tolerance, and the fact that he brought me this on his own accord meant the world to me.

I sniffled, pale and clammy. “Thank you,” I said, my voice almost a whisper as I accepted the cup.

With closed eyes, I drew in a deep breath, inhaling the steam and savoring the scent of ginger before taking a sip.

He threw his hand over the headrest, and I relaxed into it, enjoying my delicious tea. My heart filled with gratitude and delight.

“So, how's the morning sickness today?” he asked, his voice dripping with concern as his palm rested on my lap.

I opened one eye, shrugging my shoulders with a smile playing on my lips. “Tolerable…all thanks to you.”

He chuckled, shaking his head subtly. “Don't flatter me. You know you're not exactly the most pleasant person to be around when you're feeling…queasy.”

My brows arched at his words, a theatrical gasp escaping my lips as I placed a palm on my chest, mirroring my dramatic shock. “That's not true. I'm always pleasant!” I laughed, playfully slapping his thigh.

“Really?” he teased, raising his eyebrows, his expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Because I beg to differ, considering that just yesterday, you yelled at me for breathing too loudly.” His tone was light and jesting, laced with a hint of mock seriousness.

I replied with a hesitant tone, my voice trailing off, “Well…that was…uh….” I scratched the back of my head, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “A minor…you know…a minor lapse in sanity.” My shoulders shrugged, eyes dropping to my cup as I slurped my tea.

He chuckled lightly, brows rising in amusement. “A minor lapse in sanity, huh? That's one way of putting it.”

“Hey, cut me some slack here, I've been on my best behavior these past few days,” I blurted out.

“And it hasn't gone unnoticed,” he said, his lips curling into a smile as he leaned forward and planted a kiss on my forehead.

Afanasy's gaze dropped to my swollen belly, and he placed a gentle hand over it. “How's our baby doing?” He returned his eyes to me.

“She, too, has been on her best behavior,” I replied, smiling as I rested my hand over his. My eyes rolled for a moment, my head tilting to the side. “Hmm. Maybe I'm on my best behavior because she's on her best behavior.”

“Classic,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Blame the innocent little girl for everything—good and bad.”

I giggled, taking another sip. “Well, she's my one-way ticket out of trouble anytime, and I'm gonna take advantage of that while I still can.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I'm gonna tell her you said that when she's come of age. I'm gonna tell her that her mom used her as a tool to get out of trouble when she was still in the womb.”

I wore a mock scowl, my brows furrowing. “You wouldn't dare.” My lips pursed, and the words were spoken with a playful warning, my voice low and menacing.

“Oh, but I would.” He leaned in closer, his face mirroring mine and his voice dripping with confidence.

We locked eyes, neither of us willing to break character until an abrupt laugh burst out of me. He cackled, going down to kiss my belly.

I couldn't believe I was so happy with Afanasy, given the circumstances surrounding our marriage. Yet, there I was, living a blissful life.

The door rang, interrupting our playful moment, and out of the blue, Mary materialized, gliding to answer it.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked my husband as he sat upright, glancing toward the door.

He looked at me. “No. Are you?”

I gave a face that hinted at my disbelief. Who was I acquainted with that would come looking for me at home?

Julia and her husband or any of my husband's relatives wouldn't stop by unannounced; they'd call first. So, who was at the door?

Mary returned to the living, standing poised in front of us. “There's a man at the door,” she began, her gaze shifting toward me. “He says his name is Harrison and that he's your father.”

My heart skipped for a moment, my breath logged in my throat as I turned to face my husband, who didn't seem as shocked and surprised as I was.

He gently squeezed against my fingers, wearing an encouraging grin.

I'd once mentioned to him in passing a few weeks ago that I wondered what happened to my father—where he was or what he was up to. Afanasy had acted like he didn't hear me at the time, but clearly, he had.

Somehow, I had a feeling that he had something to do with my father dropping by today. I had no clue what had gone on behind my back—what had transpired that led to this moment—but I was grateful.

I'd been longing to have a conversation with Harrison for a long time now because no matter what happened, he was still my father. It was almost like Afanasy saw right through me—he knew that I was finally ready to speak with him.

Harrison being here today only meant that he, too, was ready to talk.

I drew a deep breath, returning my gaze to Mary. “Let him in.”

She nodded subtly and headed back to the door.

“You got this,” Afan said, looking into my eyes like he could sense my tension.

I squeezed out a smile, and my eyes darted to the entrance when the door opened, and Harrison stepped in.

It really was him—my father.

With his head bowed, he slowly trudged into the living room, as if every step was a struggle weighed down by his own guilt. As he halted in front of us, he kept his eyes downcast, unable to look at me.

Mary dematerialized as quickly as she'd materialized.

“I'll leave you alone,” Afan said, whispering to me as he kissed my forehead and rose to his feet.

Harrison slightly nodded as my husband walked past him, heading up the stairs.

My jaw clenched, my eyes misting as I balled a fist, struggling not to yell at him for being such a terrible father.

He stepped forward, his head bowed, chin resting on his chest as he took off his hat. “Hi, Wren,” he greeted, finally summoning the courage to look at me, his voice low and weak.

I gritted my teeth, fighting to hold back the tears that welled in my eyes as memories of all the hurt I'd endured came rushing back to the surface.

I wanted to respond to his greeting, but I couldn't find the words, nor could I stop myself from glaring at him. Now would be the perfect time to unleash all that fury I'd bottled up for years. Now would be a good time to call him names and blame it on the pregnancy.

But sadly, I couldn't. I just stared at him in silence, my aching heart racing with anticipation.

“There's nothing I can say that will justify what I've done to you—how I've treated you,” he said, his face etched with deep lines of regret and eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep or tears or both. “I just want you to know that I am so, so, so, deeply sorry, Wren.”

I lost the battle with my tears as they came streaming down uncontrollably.

He shed some, as well, shaking his head as he drew closer. “I can't sleep. I can't eat…. This guilt…it's been eating me up for months, Wren,” he confessed, stuttering.

His eyes were sunken with dark circles underneath, like he'd been haunted by his mistakes.

“I know I've come to you a thousand times with promises of changing, only to get what I want and then ghost you again,” he continued, wiping his tears. “And you might hate me for that, but the truth is, Wren…I mean it this time. I'm not the same man I used to be.”

His words dripped with regret, and in his eyes, I could see nothing but complete remorse. Something had changed in him. He seemed broken, but underneath that, I saw a man who'd found purpose.

“Why should I believe you, Dad?” I questioned, my voice barely audible. “You've hurt me time and time again. You abandoned me with a man who'd kidnapped me.” I emphasized the last statement so he'd understand the gravity of what he'd done.

“I know…I know, and I am not proud of that,” he said, his tone tinged with embarrassment and shame.

“What if Afan didn't fall in love with me? What if I got shipped away in a container and sold as a sex slave?” My voice cracked as if each word was a struggle to articulate.

My eyes welled with tears, a shimmering pool of sorrow that wouldn't stop flowing as I stared at him, seeking understanding and validation.

“I think about that every day, Wren, and that's the reason I finally came to my senses.” He blinked back his tears. “I've wronged you in more ways than one, and I wouldn't blame you if you hate me now.”

I let out a sharp exhale, my heart pounding in my chest as these emotions threatened to consume me. “Did my husband put you up to this?” I questioned, hoping that he wasn't only saying this because Afanasy had threatened him in some way.

“No,” came his swift response. “He didn't.” Dad paused for a moment. “Matter of fact, I called him to apologize because I was too afraid to come to you directly.” He scoffed, his voice tinged with amusement. “Funny how I now fear my own daughter more than a ruthless mafia boss.”

For some reason, that cracked me up, and an abrupt chuckle erupted from within me, a window for his genuine remorse to melt my heart.

“All I ask, Wren, is that you find it in your heart to forgive me,” he said, pleading with his eyes.

This entire time, he had both hands at his back, like there was something he was holding.

“Please, I know I don't deserve it, but I'm begging for your forgiveness,” he added, wiping his face with one hand, the other still behind him. “I'm so sorry, Wren.”

This time, he meant every word he said; I could see the genuineness in his eyes, and it took everything in me to let go of all that pain. Of course, I would still harbor some deep down in my heart—years of anguish couldn't be blotted out by a few minutes of sincere apologies. It would take some time for me to completely let go, but for now, I was willing to try.

I shut my eyes, inhaling through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth. This gesture released a handful of my pain and hurt, making me feel a bit lighter.

“Despite all I've had to suffer from you…I choose, on this day, to forgive you…Dad.” My voice cracked on the last word, a small, sad smile playing on my lips.

His eyes widened with gladness. “Thank you,” he whispered, wiping his tears. “You won't regret it, I promise.” Dad stepped forward and revealed a bouquet of fresh red roses. “Here. Consider this a peace offering.” He smiled, handing it to me. “I hand-picked them myself.”

The grin on my face broadened as I accepted the flowers, their sweet scent invading my senses.

“I remembered how much you love red roses,” he said, unable to control his smile, pleased that I loved them.

“They used to be Mom's favorite, too,” I said, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I sniffled the flowers.

“Yes,” he replied, “and my God, you look just like her when she was pregnant with you. Beautiful.”

At the thought of her, sadness crept into my heart, but I was quick to dispel it. Instead, I grinned wildly, choosing to bask in his compliment.

“May I?” He gestured at the space beside me.

“Sure,” I replied, tapping on the couch, an indication that he was welcome to sit.

He sank into the couch, his eyes never leaving my face. “I am so proud of the woman you've become, Wren,” he declared, a smile lingering on his lips.

Hearing him say those words touched my soul, and I could feel my reserved pain gradually seeping out of me.

He continued, his tone laced with sincerity, “For someone who grew up without proper parenting, you sure turned out to be the best version of yourself.” He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment. “You're an amazing woman, Wren, and you deserve all the happiness in the world, especially after all that you've been through.”

“Thank you,” I said, holding back a fresh stream of tears.

His eyes darted to my belly bump. “Is it a he or she?”

I rubbed my stomach and replied. “It's a she.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Amazing.” He was quiet, hesitant for a moment. “Can…can I stop by to see her when she's born?”

I giggled softly at his modesty. “You're her grandfather, aren't you?”

It was a good thing that he wanted to be present in her life; at least he'd make up for the years he was absent in mine.

“Quick question, though,” I said, my brows furrowing. “How did you get the money you brought on my wedding day?”

He laughed lightly. “I took a loan—and before you say anything, it might interest you to hear that I invested the money in a small-scale business, and I've been able to pay it back,” he explained without giving room for my reaction. “So far, the business is quite profitable, and it's booming.”

My brows arched in surprise and disbelief. “Wow! Dad, that's incredible. I'm proud of you,” I said, smiling uncontrollably.

“Not as proud as I am of you, sweetheart.” He took my hand, squeezing gently.

I had a husband who loved and adored me, we had a baby girl on the way, and now my father was back in my life, willing to be a part of it sincerely. What more could I ask for?

If this was a dream, then I'd rather not wake up at all.