That night, he came home to the smell of grilled fish and jollof rice. Shantel had gone all out. The table was set, candles lit, music playing low in the background. He stood at the doorway longer than usual, taking it all in, letting the warmth try to soak into a heart that had turned rigid.
"There you are," Shantel said, coming into view from the kitchen. "You're late."
"Traffic," he lied.
She walked up and kissed him on the cheek. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just tired."
They sat down to eat, and she talked about her day—another breakthrough with a survivor at the shelter, a new partnership proposal from a global women's org, a client she'd been mentoring who was finally pressing charges against her abuser.
Gilbert listened and smiled where appropriate, but he wasn't really hearing. He was watching her—watching the curve of her smile, the passion in her hands when she spoke, the ease with which she still trusted him.
And guilt was clawing at him like a sickness.
She didn't deserve this version of him—the silent, crumbling man who couldn't bear to ask the question hanging in the air between them. The one who feared that their miracle might be someone else's.
The following week was more of the same. Shantel glowed brighter by the day. The baby bump was starting to show, just faintly, and she had taken to talking to the little one in the mornings while dressing, as though the child could already hear.
Gilbert played along. He kissed her belly, laughed at the names she floated, and nodded when she asked if yellow would be too loud for the nursery. But inside, he was withdrawing.
He had started waking up earlier than usual—earlier even than Shantel—and would sit in the living room alone, staring at nothing in particular. Some mornings, he went for runs that lasted nearly an hour, pounding his doubt into the pavement.
At work, his performance dipped. He missed a client call, skipped a department meeting, forgot a lunch with a junior associate he was supposed to mentor. His boss pulled him aside.
"You good, Gilbert?"
"Yeah. Just got a lot on my mind," he said. It wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Meanwhile, Shantel began noticing the shift.
It started with how quiet he was. Not silent, but… muted. He used to ask questions. About her work. About the baby. About how she was feeling.
Now he mostly just nodded.
He didn't touch her as much anymore either. Not out of rejection—more like hesitation. As if she had become something fragile, he wasn't sure he had the right to reach for.
At first, she chalked it up to nerves. A lot was changing, after all.
But by the end of the second week, she couldn't ignore it anymore.
One evening, while they lay in bed, she turned to him.
"You've been distant."
He didn't answer right away. Then, "I've just been tired. Work's been a lot."
"You sure that's all?"
He hesitated. "Yeah."
She nodded slowly, turning back onto her side.
He reached for her hand under the sheets, lacing his fingers through hers.
"I'm still here," he said softly.
But his grip was looser than before.
A few days later, Lauren noticed it too. They were having lunch together in a small café near the shelter.
"How's Gil handling everything?" Lauren asked, sipping her juice.
Shantel shrugged. "Okay. I think."
Lauren raised an eyebrow. "That's a vague answer."
Shantel hesitated. "He's been… quiet. Withdrawn."
"Is he scared?"
"Maybe. I think it's more than that."
Lauren leaned in. "You think he's hiding something?"
Shantel stirred her drink slowly, not meeting her gaze. "I don't know."
But she did. She could feel it. A wall rising between them—one brick at a time. Something unsaid. Something he was burying. And it wasn't like Gilbert. He was the fixer. The straight-talker. The guy who always said what he felt, even when it stung.
She went home that night and watched him from the kitchen doorway. He was on the couch, reading something on his phone, brows furrowed.
For a moment, she wanted to ask him. Just flat out—what's going on with you?
But instead, she turned away.
She wasn't sure she was ready to hear the answer.
Two weeks after the second test, Gilbert sat in his car outside the house after work. The engine was off, keys still in his hand. The sky was pink with sunset, the street calm.
Inside, Shantel was probably getting ready for dinner. Maybe singing softly. Maybe already in her robe, curled on the couch, waiting for him.
And he couldn't move.
He stared at the house like it was someone else's life. One, he no longer deserved to be in. His chest felt tight, like his ribs were made of concrete.
Eventually, he got out and walked in.
Shantel looked up from the couch and smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded, setting his keys down.
"You sure?"
He paused. And for a moment, it looked like he was going to say something. She saw his mouth open—just slightly—and his eyes flicker with something deeper.
But then he closed it again.
"I'm okay," he said.
And the space between them grew a little wider.