APRIL

My daughter's weight in my arms is a feeling unlike any other. As I sit in the familiar darkness and hold her sleeping form, I close my eyes and breathe her in. I revel in her presence and know I created her. I sit with that fact for as long as I need to, and remind myself why I'm here.

I used to help and heal people, but I can't do that anymore. I used to be independent, but I'm not anymore. I used to be a person with sight, but I'm not that anymore, either.

There are two things that haven't been stripped from me, though. I'm a wife; I'm a mother. And that will never change, no matter what happens to my physical body. I have my daughter in my arms and my husband sleeping a few rooms away. We have a warm home and food in our bellies, and I have the same brain in my head.

Nothing can change that.

I still have the power to bring new life into the world, proven by the budding fetus inside my womb. The fetus I was hellbent on refusing just a few hours ago, but one that I now know I couldn't bear to part with.

Who would I be if I aborted it? I already don't recognize enough facets of who I am, but if I went through with it, it would likely send me into a downward spiral I could never dream of climbing out of. I'm not sure who I am right now, but I don't think I'm someone who terminates a pregnancy that was so wanted so recently. I couldn't live with myself. I'd remember it every second of every day, and I know it wouldn't come without personal punishment.

It doesn't have anything to do with religion or the set of values I was raised on, though those would be sitting in the back of my mind and heckling me the whole way. It's more than that - it's who I am at my core, and no matter how much I've changed, I can't see myself getting rid of a baby. Our baby, mine and Jackson's little life.

Especially because I know how much he wants it. When I could see, I saw it in his eyes and how they'd sparkle when we'd talk about having more. And I heard the pain in his voice when I told him my choice for this one. I'd never heard him so hurt, but I didn't care then. It's my body and my choice, but if I went through with it, I'm not sure where that would put the two of us and our marriage.

It's his child, too. As is Peyton. We already created perfection, so I know we can do it again. That's not the problem. The problem is that I won't get to witness it. The tears that slip down my cheeks are involuntary as I turn that thought over in my mind.

I won't ever see their face. Not when they're born, not when they smile for the first time, not on their first birthday. Not ever. My sight isn't coming back, but I still have a job to do. I have lives to nurture - one of those being my own.

I hear Jackson's footsteps come closer to Peyton's nursery, but I don't turn to let him know that I do. He just stands in silence for a moment before speaking, and when he does, I don't jump.

"You're holding her," he says.

I stroke the baby's back over the smooth material of her onesie. I'm not sure which one it is for sure - but I can guess. It's probably pink patterned with tiny white stars. That one is soft, and Jackson loves dressing her in it.

"Yeah," I say. He doesn't add anything more, though I expected him to. Lately, it seems like he tries to fill the silences that I won't.

I don't let him do that this time, though. I turn my head to the side and acknowledge his presence, prepared to let loose what's been running through my mind.

"I can't do it," I say, trying picturing the future if I did go through with the termination. I can't do it, though - it's a blank space full of desperation and tears. I don't know how I would go on knowing what I did. I take a deep breath and kiss Peyton as an afterthought. "We were talking about having more. Our dream was more."

He's still quiet. He lets me speak, gives me the floor.

"I can do anything," I say, though that's not entirely true anymore. But the latter part of my statement is, when I say: "I'm a mother."

While Peyton naps the next day, I sit on the couch next to Jackson with my legs folded under me. My face stings and I need salve on my burns, but this phone call comes first.

"You want me to dial?" he asks, and I nod. I hear the numbers being pushed before he hands the phone back - unfurling my fingers before setting the receiver in my flat palm. "Okay. It's ringing."

My throat is dry while I talk to the receptionist and successfully cancel my appointment, and when it's done, my shoulders feel lighter but my heart is still heavy.

Jackson spreads his fingers out on my thigh and I let him. It's a grounding force, his hand on my body, so I overlap it with my own.

"You okay?" he asks. "You're sure about this?"

I nod slowly and close my eyes, which is something I do frequently. I know him better than anyone, and I'm pretty sure my white eyes scare him. And I don't want to do that.

"I'm sure," I say. "I just… I don't know."

"What?"

I shake my head and hold his hand tighter. I scratch my cheek and sigh deeply, at a loss on how to put together my thoughts coherently. Lately, there's been a wall between us that's made communication difficult. It never used to be like this. But now, it seems there's a barrier that we somehow can't cross and I'm not sure how to knock it down.

"You wanna look at me, bitty?" he asks.

I shake my head again, eyes still closed and thoughts still whirring.

He makes a confused sound and asks, "Why?"

I swallow thickly and hear the sound that goes along with it. While I contemplate my answer, I stroke the skin atop his hand and feel the veins I'm so familiar with. But now, instead of seeing the intricate map they make, I can only feel them. I have to take what I can get. At least I can still see them in my mind's eye - there are some things that are impossible to forget.

"You can tell me anything," he says. "I hope you know that hasn't changed."

I chew the inside of my cheek and debate how to word it. I know, no matter what I say, he'll deny it. But I have to try. "I know you don't like my eyes anymore," I say, very quietly. I'm ashamed to admit that I know it. I don't like putting it out there. Saying it makes it real, instead of just a theory inside my head. "I know they're white. I know they scare you."

He's silent for a moment, a moment that makes me very nervous and jittery. I don't know what he'll say next. Is he going to concede and admit I'm right? Or is he going to substitute this empty space for a weak excuse? I can't be sure. I'm not positive that I want to know. I shouldn't have brought it up at all; it should have just remained unspoken.

But I know that's a stupid thought. Would it had to have gone unsaid for the rest of our lives?

"You know at the beginning of December, when everything is cold," he begins. "Cold with no payoff. Everything is just brittle, broken and dead. You know?"

I crinkle my barely-there eyebrows and frown, confused, and say, "Yes…"

"But then, one day it happens randomly. It's the best when you're not expecting it - that first snow. When it starts slow, like that powdered sugar I always get everywhere in the kitchen, then speeds up enough to actually stick. And by the time you wake up the next morning, the whole city is covered. And if you're up early enough like your crazy ass, you get to see it before it's been touched by anyone else. That smooth, even white."

I know what he's saying now. I've caught on.

"April," he says, voice gentler without the storytelling lilt. "Can I touch your face?"

I nod slowly. His hands cup my cheeks, below the scars, and he strokes my skin with his thumbs as gentle as can be. I lean into his touch - I let myself enjoy it, enjoy him - and open my eyes.

"There you are," he says. "Just like the snow."

My throat clogs with tears, but I keep them at bay. I don't want to ruin this moment with more of my uncontrollable emotions. I just want to sit here in this little capsule with my husband's eyes on mine and his gentle hands on my face.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," I say, and the statement holds a heavy truth.

I can't help but imagine what I'd be like if the tables were turned. Or moreover, what he would be like. I'm sure he'd be dealing with this setback much better than I have; I'm sure he'd be able to rein in his emotions, and I'm sure he wouldn't deal the blame to me or Peyton. He'd be even-keeled, or at least better than I've been. He wouldn't make things harder than they had to be, and that's all I've been doing. I haven't been fair. I know that better than anyone.

"It doesn't work like that," he says, and I hear the smile in his voice.

"You know what I mean," I say, blinking while keeping my eyes low.

"All I know is that you're my wife, and you always will be," he says. "You're the mother of my kids. And on top of that, you're a brilliant, gorgeous woman and I'm lucky to have you in my life."

"Jackson," I say, shaking my head.

"And I'm gonna kiss you now," he says. "Before we have to put that salve on your face."

I get up in the middle of the night again. Night after night, I can't seem to sleep. I lie beside Jackson and listen to his breathing change and deepen, and I feel his body twitch and eventually slacken as he slips away. But I just stay there tucked against him, one of his heavy arms across my waist and his face in my neck, wide awake.

So, without waking him, I slip out. He never stirs; he's a heavy sleeper. I've turned into one, too, whereas that's something I never used to be. Now, once I go, it's difficult to come back to the surface.

I sneak into Peyton's room and lift her out of her crib, every night. I try not to wake her, I just want to sit with her, but sometimes it's unavoidable. She doesn't fuss, she just vocalizes a bit and squirms in my arms as she tries to find a comfortable position.

I sit with her on my lap in the rocking chair because it calms me. Even if the day preceding wasn't particularly hard, they're always taxing. And sitting with my little girl in the dead of night with no noise surrounding us, it brings me a special sense of serenity.

"Peyton," I say, rocking back and forth with my eyes closed. She's been still for a while, but I know she's not sleeping. Like her father, she has telltale signs and they haven't been showcased yet. "I'm sorry your mommy is gonna be different than other mommies. That I already am."

She sighs softly. I feel her belly move and hear the air gently escape. I smile to myself - I love when she does that. It lets me know she's listening, even if she might not be aware of what I'm saying.

"You won't remember how I was when I could see. I was really fun. I took you everywhere and showed you everything. I can't really do that anymore." I rest my chin on top of her head. "Maybe I'll learn how to do it again, though. I just don't know where to start."

She rests her head against my chest plate and sighs again, this time growing a bit more limp. She's sleepy, I know that. I've been interrupting her sleep schedule for my own selfish needs, and I shouldn't be. Every night, Jackson has to come in and put us both to bed again. He hasn't said anything negative about my nightly trips, but I can tell he's thinking it. If just a little.

Tonight is no different. I come to the surface slowly as he lifts Peyton off my chest and rests a hand on my shoulder, fingers strong around it.

"Honey," he says. "Come to bed."

I make a sleepy sound in my throat and hold the armrests of the rocking chair. I blink hard for a moment as if to reorient my sight, then remember with a sinking feeling that there's no clearing it. It's a strange thing to get used to upon waking up, every single time.

"Coming," I murmur, voice raspy with exhaustion.

He doesn't move to put the baby back. Instead, he stands in place while I get up, then takes my wrist to lead me into our bedroom like always.

"What about the baby?" I ask, taking his hand.

"I figure she might as well come with us," he says. "Then, you can stop getting up at night. I don't want you to hurt yourself. If having her close makes you happy, she can sleep with us. I'll attach the bedside crib tomorrow."

I smile as he places a hand on the small of my back to help me onto the mattress. I crawl over to my side and wait for him to place Peyton beside me, then lie down himself. Once we're all settled, I reach an arm across our sleeping baby to touch his side.

"Hmm," he says.

"Thank you," I say.

"You don't have to thank me," he says.

"But I want to," I say. "You understand me."

"You're my wife," he says, simple as that. "Of course I do." There's a small beat of silence where he kisses my palm and replaces my arm where it was. "You should go to sleep. It's late, baby."

I'm not tired anymore, though. I don't feel like sleeping; I feel like talking. I want to be closer to him somehow, but there's a baby in between us now. I seem to have thwarted myself that way.

"Are you asleep?" I ask a bit later, my whisper cutting through the darkness.

"No," he answers, right away. "But we should be."

"I'm not tired," I say.

He makes an affirmative sound and weaves his hand into my hair, stroking it away from my face. Over the past few days, he's told me the salve has really helped the way my burns look. And admittedly, they haven't been stinging as much. When he accidentally brushes them, I don't jolt away in pain anymore. It's more like a dull, ever-present ache.

"What are you doing?" I ask, noticing his silence.

"Looking at you," he responds, and his voice is soft in more than just volume. It's gentle and meaningful, with deep sweetness laced in.

"Why?" I ask.

"Why not?" he quips, then chuckles. "I'm married to you. I look at you a lot."

I scoff. "I don't know why," I say.

"I do," he says. "'Cause you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Liar," I say, and roll my eyes. It's pointless, though. Now, the gesture doesn't make much of an impact.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," he says, chuckling.

"What?!" I say, lips pulling up in a smile. "How could you tell?"

"I know what makes you roll your eyes," he says. "And you hate my sappy compliments. I know you like the back of my hand, April Avery."

"Don't forget the 'Kepner' part," I say.

"I did," he says. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Plenty, if there weren't a sleeping child between us," I say, placing one hand on her back. She's turned on her side, facing me. I can feel her breath on my chest, even and slow.

"I'd love to see that," he says. "You haven't pinned me in a while."

A blush creeps onto my cheeks when he brings that up. Suddenly, the long stretch of time where we haven't been intimate is front and center in my mind. It's something I've been actively trying not to think about.

"I… I'm sorry about that," I mutter. "I know it's been a long time."

There's a beat, a pause, before he speaks again. "Oh… I was just joking," he says, but now there's an uncomfortable tension in the air - a thickness that holds the words we aren't saying. I'm almost scared to know what he's thinking, which has been the case a lot lately. I miss being able to read his face without having to ask for every single thought. I could see them for myself in his expressions.

"But it has been a long time," I say, looking at the situation from his perspective.

Sex hasn't so much as crossed my mind since the accident. I can't be sure of exactly how long ago it happened, time ceases to exist a lot of the time, but it feels like forever that I've been blind - while at the same time barely a second has passed.

"I feel bad," I say.

"April," he says. "I don't expect anything from you, let alone sex. That would be gross. You don't think of me like that, do you?"

"No…" I say, shaking my head. "But I… I do miss you. And we used to do it so much. So, you don't have to pretend that you don't miss it. I know how much you like it."

"Well, it's you," he says. "And you're my favorite person to do anything with. Including having sex. So, of course, I miss it. But-"

"Have you been getting off?" I ask, more out of curiosity than anything. Back when I could see and we were having regular sex, he wasn't huge on masturbating. Every once in a while when I was gone for a business trip we'd do spicy Skype calls, but I never walked in on him or anything like that. I think I used to do it more than he did - the shower was my alone-time for that. "Jerking off, I mean."

He clears his throat - a telltale sign of discomfort. "Um… I, yeah," he says. "Once in a while."

"Good," I say.

"Good?" he repeats, sounding incredulous. He laughs a little. "That's not what I expected you to say."

"Well, I figured," I say, eyelids growing heavy. "You've been so patient with me. And… no offense, but you're not exactly the most understanding, even-keeled person when you're not having regular orgasms."

He laughs and tries to keep it at bay so not to wake the baby. "Well, read me, why don't you," he says, still chuckling.

I smile, too. "Just saying."

We're quiet for a bit, and I reach over again and stroke his forearm. I've always loved the way his skin feels, and I'm grateful that's something I haven't lost. That I will never lose.

"Jackson," I say, a little while later. I'm still stroking his arm, which is something that always used to calm and soothe him. I'm the only person he's ever let treat him so softly, and I cherish it. "Are you asleep now?"

"Almost," he murmurs, and I assumed as much.

"Jackson," I say, one more time. "How are we gonna do this?"

I hope he knows what I mean. I can't stop thinking about the tiny fetus inside me, ever-growing and changing, that will someday turn into a living child that cries, crawls, and needs constant attention. I can barely fathom how we'll get through the next day, let alone the next year. The next five, ten, fifteen. I can't see that far into the future - I can't see anything.

He takes my hand and kisses each of my fingers, lingering as he does. "We've made it this far," he says. "Day by day. That's all we can do."

He rests my hand on the side of his neck, and I keep it there. I'm eventually lulled to sleep by the strong beat of his pulse, my mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

...

A few days later, I'm sitting on the couch with Peyton on my lap, listening to her babble and enjoying the feeling of her pudgy hands on my arms, neck, and face. Jackson had been in the room with us, too, but when the phone rang he excused himself to the kitchen. I can still hear his voice, albeit muffled, and it sounds urgent and businesslike.

His footsteps announce his presence a few moments later. "Hey, sweetie," he says. "I gotta go. I just got paged for an emergency surgery - someone came in with third degree burns over their entire body."

Hearing the purpose in his tone and knowing what he's set out to do, my skin prickles with jealousy and a bad taste appears in my mouth. I want to be the one rushing off to save someone's life. I want to drive at breakneck speed to the hospital and change into scrubs as quick as I can, then be briefed on what's happening by a resident as we race down the hall. I don't want to be stuck here on the couch, complacent with what's in front of me.

"Alright?" he says. "You okay here by yourself for a few hours? I'll try not to be long."

"I won't be alone," I say, trying to make the best of it. "I'll have Peanut."

He takes a breath but cuts himself off. He pauses before actually saying what he wants to say. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says. "I'll just take her with me and drop her off at daycare."

Instantly, I feel defensive. "Jackson, we're just sitting here."

"I'll be gone for hours," he says. "I just… I don't think it's safe yet. I don't think either of you are ready."

"You don't trust me," I spit. I hate that I'm not sure if I'm looking in the right direction. I also hate that my body is pulsing with anger again, after the feeling has been absent for days. It's not welcome, but it's uncontrollable and involuntary. I don't like feeling useless, and the fact that he can't put faith in me with my own child is the epitome of uselessness.

"It's not that," he says, practically pleading. "Please, don't put words in my mouth. Can I just… we can talk about this later. We can start slower. Please, just let me take her."

I set my jaw and close my eyes as he lifts the baby off my lap. My body tenses as he bends to give me a kiss on the head, and I don't lean into him. I turn away.

"See you later," he says. "If you get hungry, there are leftovers in the fridge. I know how much you like those."

"I probably can't be trusted to heat them up," I say. "So, I just won't eat."

He sighs, long and exasperated. He's tired of me acting this way when something goes wrong, and I'm tired of things going wrong. I'm blind, not incompetent. I still know my child. Just because I can't see her doesn't mean I can't take care of her.

"I gotta go," he says. "We can talk later."

"Sure."

I hear the front door open and close, and I'm left in inky silence. The house creaks, the wind blows outside, and the heat comes on and whirs to life. Other than that, though, there's no sound.

I get up from the couch, determined to do something on my own to prove I can. Suddenly, I'm furious. I don't understand how he can say such kind, genuine things to me when it doesn't involve applying the actions to life, but when it comes to making a trial run, he surrounds me with pads and bumpers. This was never my life. I was a badass trauma surgeon; safety was never on the forefront of my mind. A sheltered life is not one I want to participate in, nonetheless one I want for myself and my family. It's not fair. It's half a life, or even less.

I pace the living room, back and forth. I know the pathway like the back of my hand, and I don't run into anything. This is the room I spend the most time in. I don't need eyes to navigate it, I just need muscle memory.

I get tired of it quickly, though, and make my way towards the dining room. On the way there, though, I slam into something hard and unmoving near the door. It takes a second to realize what it is, because this is something that was never there while I could see. I never had a chance to memorize its position.

It's the piano.

"Stupid thing," I say, then take a step to the right to try and dodge it, but I end up running into the bench. "God!" I exclaim.

It seems sentient, like it's putting itself in my way on purpose. I stand in the same place, a huge frown on my face, and let my hands clench into fists. I aim to kick a leg of the bench, but I miss and kick the air as hard as I can.

I let out a loud, lasting sound of frustration and try to catch my breath. Being this angry is exhausting, that's true, but I have no other outlet. It's one of the only things I have say over, and I'm determined to let it simmer. I deserve as much. I'm allowed to be pissed off. I'm allowed to hate what's happening. No one said I had to take it lying down.

The truth is, I'm not the soft and understanding person I once was. Of course, there's still kindness inside me inherently, and there always will be. But now, I'm constantly on the defense. My first instinct isn't to put myself in someone else's shoes, but to figure out a way to protect myself. It's impossible to be offensive anymore - I don't have the tools for that. So, I have to move in the opposite direction in an extreme way.

I sit down on the piano bench and slump forward, letting my head hang. I'm not used to living this way, and it takes a lot out of me. I always have to think about what's next, I always have to be one step ahead. I can't just let things happen to me. The last time I did that, I lost my sight.

I set my hands in front of me and find that the keys are uncovered, the cover open. I run my fingers along the ivories and feel the slats of the black keys, grouped in twos and threes at every interval.

I used to play the piano as a kid. From age seven to sixteen, I was good. I loved practicing, I loved recitals, and I loved making music. But that was when I could see, and things are different now. I'm not a prodigy like Beethoven, who wrote beautiful pieces even after going deaf. I'm not like Ray Charles; that thought is just laughable. I don't know how Jackson can expect me to be anything but ordinary. Unlike the musicians who crossed my mind, I'm just me. A blind woman feeling the keys without a clue what to do next.

I remember how it felt to play a song perfectly, though. I hadn't known it, but I'd grow addicted to that feeling of accomplishment and a job well done. It carried over to my love of surgery and fixing someone to be brand new. That feeling and one of a song played without mistakes were eerily alike, and I never connected that until now. I loved knowing that I made people proud, no matter who those people were.

I wonder when the last time was that someone felt proud of me. I'm sure Jackson would say he's proud of me every day, but I mean something more than that. After the accident, have I done anything noteworthy? It doesn't feel like it. I've just been surviving, existing. Not living.

I smooth my five fingers along the keys until I recognize the familiar middle C. I plunk my thumb down and listen to the sound as it resonates - leave it to Jackson to make sure this piano is perfectly tuned. I press my pointer finger to play D, then my middle finger for E - and when that happens, memories come rushing back.

I'm sent back to my sophomore year in high school, when I played the song 'Edelweiss' from The Sound of Music for my last recital. I sang along, something that a few other kids did, too, and I brought down the house. The applause and tears from my family aren't the only reason this song is close to my heart, though. I practiced it for weeks and months on end to get the notes right, to make sure my intonation matched. I played it so much that I swear it became a part of me. It was in my head every moment of every day, and I was constantly humming it.

The first note of the song is E, and it comes back when I press my middle finger down. The rest of the song is all right there in my head, and it feels like it should come out so easily. Like I could shut my brain off, let my fingers do the work, and it would come like it always used to. I could escape to that headspace I haven't been in for so long and maybe, that way, remember a part of who I used to be.

I press on E again and try to think of what note comes next. I try F, but that doesn't work. It's wrong. So, I take a step up and hit G, and I think that's right. E, then G. I have no clue what comes next, so I go up the scale and try to find what sounds correct. It doesn't gel until I get to high D, but I play B flat on the way there, and that sounds horrible.

"Stupid," I mutter, then slam both hands on the keys. "Stupid!"

I sit there on the bench with one hand rested on the keys, not doing much at all. I don't know what the next step is and I don't know how to figure it out. It's not like I can look at sheet music or pull it up on my phone. I haven't used my phone on my own since everything happened. I don't know where to start in doing that.

I sit there for a long time. I'm not sure how much time has passed by the time I come up with a new idea. Maybe if I try and sing the song, the notes will come more easily. I just have to remember how it goes.

I sit up straighter and clear my throat, determined once again. I think hard for a moment, and then begin.

"Edelweiss… edelweiss… every morning you greet me… small and white, clean and bright… you look happy to meet me…"

I lose my train of thought after that, though. I'm not sure what comes next. I can't think of the words. I can hear the tune, but the syllables won't come. I have no idea. So, I start over.

I repeat the same intro to the song, then get stuck in the same place. No matter how hard I think, I don't know the words that follow.

I make a loud sound of frustration and push at the piano, and I'm not sure what I expected to happen. It weighs thousands of pounds and I weigh somewhere around 110, so of course I'd be the one to move. I shove at the keys and end up knocking myself and the bench backwards, sending us both tumbling to the floor with a loud crash.

Luckily, I don't hit anything. I just land in a pile of rubble, the bench having come open with a bunch of papers inside.

"Ouch," I hiss. "God damn it."

I get to my feet and straighten the area as best I can, though I'm not sure how great that actually is. It feels okay, though, from what I can sense, so I leave it. I'm done with that thing, if all it's going to do is make me angry and remind me how little I can do.

I'm sure if I could see, I could get right back into that song. I wouldn't have as much of a reason to, but I'd at least know that I could do it. I wouldn't be obligated to prove so much to myself and to others. I could just be, and live happy, like I'd been doing. If I could see, I'd be just be joyful about this new baby instead of filled with so many mixed feelings.

It's not fair.

I find my way back to the couch and let myself cry. I only do it when I'm alone now, which isn't very often. I sit there and sniffle, legs crossed on the cushion, head hanging low. I cry for everything I can't do and wish I could, and for the life ahead of me that I have no idea how to navigate.

A while later, I'm woken up by a hand on my shoulder and Jackson's voice. I blink my eyes open and roll onto my back, not yet able to discern what he's saying. My mind is too cloudy.

"...up to bed. It's late, I'm so sorry."

"Hmmm… what?" I say.

"It's late," he says. "Let me take you up to bed. I didn't know it would take this long, I'm really sorry, honey."

I sit up slowly, relaxing against the cushion while he keeps one of my hands. "What time?" I ask.

"Almost midnight," he says.

"I'm hungry," I say, one hand on my stomach.

"You didn't eat?" he says.

I shake my head and say, "I fell asleep."

"Alright," he says, helping me up. "Let's go find something."

"Where's Peanut?" I ask, still groggy.

"In bed already," he says. "I put her down before I came to get you."

"Oh… okay," I say, following with shuffling feet. He maneuvers me around the piano that I definitely would have hit for a second time if he hadn't.

I hear the sound of the light switch flicking on in the kitchen, and he helps me to the table. "What sounds good?" he asks.

"Grilled cheese," I say, right away.

He chuckles. "Coming right up."

He sits with me while I eat slowly and carefully. I work around the crust like a kid, setting it off to the side while moving to the other half of the sandwich.

"Sorry, I didn't cut it off for ya," he says, and I hear the smile. "My bad. I forgot your five-year-old tendencies."

I snicker and keep eating, nibbling around the crust as best I can.

"Bitty, I'm sorry about earlier," he says. "I didn't want to fight. I know it's hard to understand where I'm coming from. I don't really understand it, either. Because I do trust you, and I trust you with the baby. I want you to be confident. But… I don't know. It's just scary. It's not that I'm scared of you, but I don't want something to happen and be unavailable. But I don't want you to think I'm making decisions for you, either." He sighs. "I don't know where I'm at right now. But I know what I did was unfair."

I shrug one shoulder. I understand what he means. I was wrong to get angry with him earlier. He was gone for a long time, and I can't get up the stairs on my own yet to navigate the house. I bruised myself bumping into the piano and fell off the bench. It would have been a disaster with the baby here.

"It's okay," I say.

"But it's not," he replies, quickly. "I need to have more faith in you, because I said that I do. I'll practice what I preach."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," I say, elbows on the table. "I'm blind. It's normal to wonder what I can and can't do. I've been doing the same thing."

He's quiet. He doesn't know what to say. Maybe there's nothing to say in response to that.

"But you're still you," he says.

"Kind of."

"April, you are," he says. "You still like the crust cut off your grilled cheese. That's like, the most 'you' thing ever."

I smile. I can't help it.

"I'll get better at… everything," he says. "I'll go to a support group or something."

"You don't have to do that," I mutter quietly.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "So, what did you do while we were gone?"

The memory of unleashing my fury at the piano comes back, and I decide to keep that to myself. I think about playing the notes and feeling like I was going to get it, but then not being able to. I remember falling off the bench and landing in a heap, which I probably have bruises from now. And he'll see them before I ever do.

"Not much," I say.

"TV? Anything?" he asks.

"Kinda hard to find the remote when you're blind," I say.

"April," he says.

"I'm joking," I say, grinning.

He sighs, but only lightly. "Your humor has gotten dark," he says.

"Yeah, well, so has everything else," I say.

He can't help but laugh at that. I cherish the sound - I haven't heard him belly-laugh for a long time. I love it when he lets go and frees himself enough to let his laugh go high and joyful. He sounds like a little kid, and it's my favorite sound in the whole world.

We go up to bed a little while later and he helps me into the pajamas I request. Once we're both lying down, just the two of us, I curl onto my side and rest my head on his stomach. It rises and falls as he breathes, and I run two fingers through the hair around his belly button.

"Maybe I'm the one who should go to a support group," I say, very softly. So soft, I wonder if he even heard.

He did hear, though. He weaves a hand through my hair and runs it through his fingers, twirling it at the ends. I can tell it's long and probably in need of a trim soon.

"Really?" he asks. The tone of his voice tells me he's floored, but he's trying to make it seem like he's not. I knew he'd be surprised, because I'm surprised at myself for suggesting it. But I'm not sure how else to get better. "That's something you'd want?"

"Yeah," I say, flattening my hand to rub his skin gently. "I think I need it."