His voice dropped lower and lower, laced with desperation, like a child terrified of being abandoned.
By then, the relatives around us could no longer hold back. One after another, they spoke, their voices overlapping as they tried to persuade me. Everyone had seen how attentive Jonathan had been over the past months.
When I was struggling with postpartum insomnia, he brewed calming tea for me every night. I once casually mentioned that I liked the pastries from the west side of the city, and he took the long way home for an entire month just to buy them. Even my own mother often said that the greatest fortune of my life was marrying Jonathan.
“Every couple fights,” one relative urged, leaning forward with earnest eyes. “Jonathan has already lowered himself this much—Angela, don’t be so stubborn. Ethan just learned to call him Daddy. Can you really let your child grow up without one?”
“Angela, what marriage doesn’t have quarrels?” another chimed in, her voice sharp with reproach. “He’s poured his heart out for you. Don’t be foolish.”