Epilogue
When it comes to married life with Silas, I should have expected the unexpected. A happy life, even a sheltered one, can throw you curves. But of all the curves I could have imagined, Brady wasn’t one of them.
I was on the pill after all. I took it religiously. Even if I’d longed for a child, which I didn’t, I’d never have stopped taking birth control without discussing it with Silas. But on our second anniversary, on the sixth morning of a curious illness that seemed to miraculously subside by noon, I sat in disbelief at my dressing table, numbly staring at the double pink lines on the pregnancy test.
He saw them, too, and when I saw the incredulous look on his face, I knew what he must be thinking—that I’d tricked him, that I’d wanted to get pregnant despite his wishes, and had surreptitiously gone off the pill, that deceit had reared its ugly head once again in our relationship.
“This is impossible,” I’d said, and had begun to cry. The plastic stick had fallen from my hands to land on the floor and Silas stood, turned, and walked out of the room.
When I heard the car leave, I threw myself on the bed, convinced that I’d ruined everything. I was pregnant with his child, and while up until that point I’d told myself there was nothing I would not do for the man I loved, I now knew there was a limit. I would not undo this. I would not end it, not because of any moral or religious opposition, but simply because to terminate this pregnancy would leave a hole in my heart that would never heal.
I was already exhausted, mentally and physically and fell asleep there on the bed.
I don’t know how long he was gone; I only remember him shaking me awake as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He was holding a paper bag.
“I’ve never dealt with a pregnant lady before,” he said shyly. “I don’t even know what you eat. I read somewhere you like pickles.” He pulled out a jar of gherkins. “And ice cream.” That was followed by a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
I started crying, then laughing, and then I had to run to the bathroom to throw up again. He came in and held my hair, seeing me at my absolute most vulnerable, at my worst, sobbing in relief as I retched into the toilet.
I know he was scared. So scared, in fact, that he entered therapy on the day our first ultrasound revealed the small beanlike human I was gestating, flipping and flopping around in the tiny amniotic sac. Silas was going to be a father, and this reality made him determined to avoid repeating the mistakes his own father had made, and to face the scars that had not yet healed.
He found an open-minded, nonjudgmental therapist, one he could confide in not just about his past, but about his present, about us, about our dynamic. Silas did not want it to change. We both knew adjustments would have to be made, but ours was a unique dynamic that fed a deep well of need we shared.
Silas saw the therapist once a week. Toward the end of the pregnancy, we went together. During those sessions, my strong husband allowed himself to be vulnerable, and I was moved to tears by specific revelations of his father’s cruelty that fed his desire to control and nurture, to bring order to the most important thing in his life—his home.
Had I not become pregnant, I don’t think my husband would have completely healed. So in a way, we have Brady to thank for making him stronger, for making us stronger.
Brady. What can I say about our little man? For one thing, he is all boy with his father’s thick blond hair and athleticism. He’s a daredevil. If we’re outside and pass a tree, he’s game to climb it. More than once Silas has had to pull him from the branches. In our house, my husband is the overprotective one.
Silas remains just as protective of me. Even though he’s a father now, he’s still a daddy dom to me. If I’m grumpy after my day as a freelance financial advisor—I insist on working even though I don’t have to—a stern look can silence me. That same stern look, though, still sends heated pleasure coursing through my veins.
We are fortunate to have a house large enough to keep the sounds of our private pleasure private—the smacks of his large hand on my ass for correction or pleasure, my cries, his moans. We are fortunate to have a wonderful extended family of staff ready and willing to occupy our rambunctious little son so that we can have private time to ourselves.
Outside the bedroom, our dynamic is subtle, the daddy dom-little girl relationship a subtext when we are around others.
We have found balance in all things, so much so that Silas now believes that our rambunctious son, who does not always like to share in nursery school, would benefit from the presence of a little sister or brother. The fact that he proposes this makes me happier than I can say.
A family of four? I have agreed, so we will try for another baby come spring after I finish my master’s degree.
And who knew it would come to this? Who knew the day I walked into this house seeking riches I’d put myself on a path to discovering that true wealth lies in the simple things?
And so much is ahead, so much for both of us. Each morning feels like the start of a brand-new fairy tale, each evening a happy ending.
The End