When I got pregnant after years of thinking it might not happen for us, he doubled down on his concern. I should slow down. Rest more. Stop worrying about renewing certifications while carrying his child. He framed retreat like tenderness, and I accepted it because by then I was tired and hopeful and wanted to believe being taken care of meant being valued.
Sandra listened, then asked, “Prenup?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it.”
I did. She read that too.
Nathan’s attorney had done a beautiful job protecting the firm, his pre-marital assets, his future equity, and every expensive corner of his life. What the agreement did not do, because at the time children were a vague someday item and Nathan was more focused on real estate than diapers, was solve for custody or child support.
Sandra tapped one manicured finger on the relevant section.
“He thought this was a wall,” she said. “It’s a fence.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s protected in some ways he’s counting on. It also means your child changes the math in ways he did not plan for.”
I felt something strange then. Not hope exactly. Hope was too soft a word. It was more like traction.