Chapter 2 - The Man Trevor Refused to Call Father
For years, Trevor and I had talked about children as though they were waiting somewhere just beyond the next corner.
We imagined Sunday mornings with tiny feet running down the hallway. We debated baby names during long drives, pointed at families in restaurants, and laughed about which of us would be stricter. Trevor always claimed he would be the soft one.
“You’ll make rules,” he once told me, resting his hand over mine. “I’ll secretly give them cookies after bedtime.”
Back then, I believed him.
What neither of us understood was how much pain could fit between a dream and its arrival.
Our first pregnancy ended before I had even begun showing. The second lasted long enough for us to hear a heartbeat, which somehow made losing it even harder. After that, every doctor’s appointment felt like walking into a room where someone might take our future away.
When I became pregnant for the third time, I refused to buy anything during the first trimester.
Trevor was more hopeful. He downloaded an app that compared the baby’s size to fruit and read each update aloud at breakfast. At twelve weeks, he brought home two tiny yellow blankets.
“Neutral,” he said, placing them on the kitchen table. “Just in case.”
At our next ultrasound, the technician went quiet.
My fingers tightened around Trevor’s hand.
“What is it?” I whispered.
The technician smiled and turned the monitor slightly.
“There are two heartbeats.”
Trevor stared at the screen for several seconds before laughing so loudly that the technician joined him.
“Twins?” he said. “We’re having twins?”
Two girls.
After so many years of empty rooms and canceled hopes, we were going to bring home two daughters.
For a while, Trevor became the husband I had always believed he would be. He painted the nursery pale green, assembled both cribs, and spent hours reading reviews for car seats. He spoke to my stomach every night and called the babies his “little miracles.”
But as the pregnancy progressed, something changed.
I grew more physically dependent, and Trevor grew restless.
At first, the changes were small. He sighed when I asked him to carry laundry upstairs. He looked annoyed when I needed help getting out of the bathtub. If I woke him because of cramps or shortness of breath, he rolled away and told me I worried too much.
“You’re pregnant, not sick,” he said one morning.
The words stayed with me.
By thirty-four weeks, walking from the bedroom to the kitchen left me breathless. My ankles were swollen, my lower back throbbed constantly, and one of the babies pressed so hard beneath my ribs that sleeping became nearly impossible.
During an ultrasound, my doctor explained that Baby B remained breech.
“We’re scheduling a C-section,” Dr. Mitchell said. “Given the position of the second baby and the strain on your body, it’s the safest option.”
Trevor sat beside me, scrolling through his phone.
Dr. Mitchell turned directly toward him.
“The surgery itself is routine, but the recovery can be difficult. She won’t be able to lift much besides the babies. Stairs should be limited. Driving will be restricted. With two newborns, she will need significant support.”
Trevor finally looked up.
“Don’t worry,” he said confidently. “I’ll handle everything.”
I wanted to believe him badly enough that I ignored the impatience in his voice.
Four days later, he entered the living room wearing an excited grin.
I was sitting on the couch with three pillows behind my back, trying to find a position that did not hurt.
“Great news,” he announced.
He held up his phone. On the screen was a photograph of a beachfront hotel with white balconies overlooking turquoise water.
“The guys finally booked the trip. Four nights. Direct flight. Oceanfront rooms.”
I waited for him to laugh and admit it was a joke.
He did not.
“What trip?”
“The beach trip I mentioned.”
“You said they were talking about it. You never said you agreed to go.”
“Well, now it’s official.”
My C-section was scheduled in six days.
I stared at him, certain I had misunderstood.
“Trevor, I’m having major surgery next week.”
“I know. I’ll be back before then.”
“The doctor said the babies could come early.”
“They could have come early for weeks.”
“That doesn’t make this safe.”
His smile faded.
“Please don’t start.”
I looked down at my swollen hands. “Start what?”
“Turning everything into a crisis.”
For several seconds, I could not speak.
I had spent years defending Trevor when people called him immature. I told myself he used humor because he was nervous. I told myself his friends mattered because he had known them since college. I told myself fatherhood would change him.
Now he was standing in front of me, preparing to travel nearly twelve hundred miles away days before the birth of our daughters.
“I can barely stand long enough to make food,” I said. “What happens if I go into labor while you’re gone?”
“You call an ambulance.”
The casualness of his answer hurt more than if he had shouted.
“You promised to take care of me.”
“And I will. After the babies are born.”
“I need you now.”
Trevor rubbed both hands over his face.
“I have spent months working, assembling furniture, attending appointments, and listening to you panic about every little symptom. I need a break before the crying and dirty diapers begin.”
“A break from what? You aren’t the one carrying them.”
His expression hardened.
“I knew you would make me feel guilty.”
“You should feel guilty.”
The room became silent.
Trevor stared at me as if I had slapped him.
Then he picked up his suitcase from beside the hallway closet.
He had already packed.
That detail destroyed the last hope I had that he was merely considering the trip.
“You planned this before asking me.”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You’re announcing that you have already chosen.”
“Chosen what?”
“The beach.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m choosing four days with my friends before my entire life changes.”
“Your life has already changed, Trevor. You just haven’t accepted it.”
He left the following morning.
I stood at the front window as a rideshare pulled away from the curb. He did not look back.
The moment the car disappeared, I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
“Sweetheart?”
I tried to speak normally, but my voice broke.
“Can you come stay with me?”
She arrived three hours later carrying an overnight bag, two containers of soup, and an anger she tried to hide for my sake.
“Where is Trevor?” she asked, although I had already told her.
“On his way to the airport.”
Mom looked toward the nursery.
“He actually went?”
I nodded.
She did not criticize him. She simply wrapped her arms around me and held me while I cried against her shoulder.
That night, Trevor sent me a photograph from the hotel balcony.
The ocean behind him glowed orange beneath the sunset. He wore sunglasses and held a cocktail in one hand.
Made it. You’d love the view.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark.
The next afternoon, he uploaded pictures of himself stretched across a beach chair with three empty glasses lined up on the table beside him.
His caption read: Last taste of freedom.
I was standing in the kitchen when I saw it.
The phrase made something cold settle inside me.
Freedom.
That was how he viewed the days before our daughters arrived.
Not anticipation. Not responsibility. Not love.
The last moments of freedom.
That evening, I began having contractions.
Mom timed them while I tried to breathe through the pressure.
“They’re seven minutes apart,” she said. “We’re calling the doctor.”
I called Trevor first.
He did not answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Ten minutes later, he sent a message.
At dinner. Everything okay?
I typed that I was having contractions.
His response came nearly five minutes later.
Probably false labor. Drink water and lie down.
Dr. Mitchell instructed us to go to the hospital.
By the time we arrived, the contractions had slowed, but my blood pressure was elevated. The medical team decided there was no reason to wait until the scheduled date.
“We’re delivering tonight,” Dr. Mitchell said.
Mom squeezed my hand.
I called Trevor once more.
This time he answered. Loud music and laughter filled the background.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“They’re performing the C-section tonight.”
There was a pause.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t they wait until tomorrow? My flight—”
My throat tightened.
“No, Trevor. They cannot delay surgery to accommodate your vacation.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
He began speaking quickly, promising to check flights and reach the airport as soon as possible. I listened without believing any of it.
A nurse entered to prepare me.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Wait. Put me on video when they’re born.”
I ended the call.
My mother stayed beside me until the hospital staff wheeled me toward the operating room.
The lights above me passed in bright white intervals. I had imagined Trevor walking beside the bed, pretending to be brave while gripping my hand. Instead, my mother wore the disposable surgical gown and stayed near my shoulder.
“You’re not alone,” she whispered.
But I felt alone.
The surgery was successful.
Our first daughter, Emma, announced herself with a sharp, furious cry. Lucy followed less than two minutes later, smaller but equally determined.
When the nurse brought them near my face, every pain and betrayal briefly disappeared.
They were beautiful.
They were alive.
They were ours.
And their father was absent.
Trevor reached the airport too late for the final flight. He watched the babies through a video call from his hotel room while my mother held the phone.
“They’re perfect,” he said.
I could see an open bottle on the table behind him.
“You should rest,” I replied.
“I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”
But a storm canceled his flight, and his return was delayed another day.
My recovery was harder than I expected. Standing felt as though my body were splitting open. Every cough sent pain across my abdomen. Feeding one baby while the other cried made me feel helpless.
Mom did everything she could, but she was sixty-three and exhausted.
On the second night, while both babies screamed and I could not get out of bed quickly enough, I realized that bringing them home would not magically make Trevor dependable.
An apology would not change what he had chosen.
I needed help from someone who understood what it meant to stay when staying was difficult.
There was one name Trevor never allowed me to mention.
A man he had not spoken to in almost eighteen years.
His father.
Richard Hayes.
I found his number in an old address book Trevor kept in a desk drawer. I stared at it for nearly an hour before calling.
He answered cautiously.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Claire. I’m Trevor’s wife.”
The silence on the line changed.
“Is Trevor all right?”
“He’s fine. We had our babies.”
“Babies?”
“Twin girls.”
Richard exhaled shakily.
“Congratulations.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m calling because I need help.”
He did not ask why Trevor was not helping.
He simply said, “Tell me where you are.”
Richard arrived the morning after we returned home.
He brought groceries, diapers, formula, and a small wooden box containing two silver bracelets that had belonged to Trevor’s grandmother.
He did not criticize his son.
He washed his hands, took Lucy gently into his arms, and asked what needed to be done.
For the first time since Trevor left, I felt safe.
The following afternoon, we heard a car stop outside.
Trevor was home.
The front door opened.
“I’m back!” he called cheerfully.
His suitcase rolled across the hallway floor.
Then he stepped into the living room.
Richard was sitting in Trevor’s favorite chair, bottle-feeding Emma. I stood behind him holding Lucy against my chest.
Trevor’s smile disappeared.
His suitcase slipped from his hand and struck the floor with a violent crash.
Every trace of color drained from his face.
“No,” he whispered.
Richard slowly raised his eyes.
May you like
Trevor’s hands began trembling.
“Not you,” he said, panic replacing shock. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
