Chapter 8.2
At midnight, the bells of the nearby church rang out, their chimes carrying through the cold winter air. Andrea lay still in bed, silent tears sliding down her cheeks, soaking into her pillow as she listened to the distant voices singing Christmas carols. Somewhere out there, people were celebrating—families gathered around warm fireplaces, children laughing, homes glowing with soft golden lights.
But not here. Not for her.
Through her bedroom window, she could see the decorations strung across neighboring houses, twinkling in reds, greens, and golds. A picture of warmth. Of love. Of everything she had never truly known.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop crying, but the ache inside her only deepened.
She had spent every Christmas like this—alone. Struggling. She had been born to a mother who had barely cared, who had seen her as an obligation rather than a child to be loved. And just like that, year after year, Christmas had come and gone, another reminder of how little she mattered to the world.
For a brief, fleeting moment, she had believed things might be different.
Victor Remington had made her believe. Charming, wealthy, magnetic Victor. He had spun dreams out of sweet words and grand gestures, made her feel like she finally belonged somewhere. That she was finally wanted.
But it had all been a lie.
And now, she was back to where she started—except worse.
A single mother. Alone again. Trapped in the same cycle her own mother had lived.
She covered her face with her hands as another sob escaped her lips, her shoulders trembling. Her child would be born without a father, just as she had been. Would they grow up resenting her, the way she had resented her mother? Would they see her as weak? Would they hate her for not being enough?
The fear wrapped around her chest, suffocating.
Andrea curled her hands over her belly, as if she could somehow shield her child from the loneliness clawing at her soul.
“I’ll do better,” she whispered, voice thick with tears. “I promise, I’ll do better.”
But promises made in the dark felt small and fragile, easily shattered.
“Hey, Andrea… Andrea…”
A gentle knock on the door, followed by soft footsteps. She barely registered them.
Asher entered the bedroom, his voice cautious, his presence warm. But Andrea didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her, pulling her into a side hug.
“Shh… everything’s okay. Shhh…” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.
“No, I know,” Andrea choked out between hiccups, but she wasn’t fooling anyone—not him, not herself.
Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the snot she wiped hastily on the bedsheet. It was an ugly cry, the kind she had been holding back for months, maybe even years. But Asher didn’t seem to care. He just held her, steady and unwavering, as if he had nowhere else to be.
She felt his eyes on her—soft, kind, endlessly understanding—and something inside her cracked wide open. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, and she broke.
She cried like she had never cried before, sobs tearing from her chest, shaking her entire body. She clung to him, burying her face into the fabric of his shirt, and let it all pour out—the loneliness, the exhaustion, the overwhelming fear of a future she had no control over.
“Andrea,” Asher whispered, rubbing slow circles on her back. “Talk to me.”
Her voice trembled, nearly lost beneath her sobs. “My baby is going to hate me…”
Asher stiffened slightly behind her, his grip tightening. “Why would you even think that?” he asked, his voice low, as if the very thought pained him.
“Because—because he’ll be just like me.”
The words spilled out in broken pieces, raw and desperate.
“I won’t be able to give him Christmas gifts… just an old sock, a broken radio, five dollars to buy candy if it’s a good year.” Her breath hitched. “He’ll hate me because I won’t be able to afford his football classes, or school trips to see the Statue of Liberty. He’ll hate me because he’ll have to wear the same pair of torn shoes for three years, even when they don’t fit anymore.”
She sobbed harder, gripping his shirt in her fists, her entire body trembling.
“He’ll hate me because he won’t have a father.” Her voice broke. “Because a few years from now, he’ll probably be right here in this same room, staring out at other people’s decorated houses, watching their warm Christmas dinners from the outside. And all he’ll know of Christmas is that it’s just another day… another reminder of what he’ll never have.”
She gasped for air between sobs, her chest tightening with the unbearable weight of it all.
“This is so unfair!” she cried out, her fists pounding weakly against Asher’s chest. “So damn unfair!”
But Asher didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.
He just held her. Let her cry. Let her hit him, let her fall apart.
And when she had nothing left but ragged breaths and exhausted tears, his arms tightened around her, anchoring her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.
"Shh... shh… listen to me, Andrea. Just listen."
Asher’s voice broke through her sobs, gentle but firm. His arms were still around her, holding her steady, anchoring her to him as her world crumbled. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice low and soothing, weaving through the darkness like a lifeline.
“In another month, a little boy will be born,” he murmured. “A healthy, crying, scrunched-up little thing, red-faced and perfect. He’ll have ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes…” He paused, rubbing slow circles on her back. “And he’ll drink his milk, sleep in your arms, and smile up at his mommy.”
Andrea sniffled, her tears slowing as she listened, drawn in by the quiet certainty in his voice.
“And then… next Christmas, he’ll be walking,” Asher continued, his voice like a lullaby. “Wobbly at first, clinging to your fingers for balance, but walking. And the year after that?” He smiled, as if he could see it playing out before him. “He’ll be talking. He’ll run around the house saying, ‘Mommy, look!’ over and over again because he’ll want to show you everything.”
Andrea’s breath hitched, her mind beginning to replace fear with something else—something fragile but bright.
“And outside, there’ll be a big Christmas tree in the living room,” Asher went on, his voice painting the picture for her. “The biggest one we can find, with a giant star at the top and lights wrapped all around it, twinkling like magic.”
Andrea could almost see it—golden and warm, a home filled with love instead of loneliness.
“It’ll be cozy inside, toasty from the fireplace, and beneath that tree, there’ll be presents. Beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts, just waiting to be opened.” He grinned. “That year, he’ll get a toy car… and a stuffed animal of his choice. And he’ll be so happy, Andrea.”
Something inside her cracked—this time, not from fear, but from hope.
“And before you know it, another Christmas will come,” Asher continued, his voice full of certainty. “The house will glow like a damn lighthouse, so bright you’ll be able to see it from miles away.” He chuckled. “He’ll be in school then, running off every morning in his brand-new tennis shoes because he won’t have to wear the same ones for years. That year, he’ll get the gaming console he’s been begging for, and you’ll be the best mom in the world for making it happen.”
Andrea had stopped crying entirely now. She didn’t even remember what had made her so scared.
Asher was painting something beautiful—something impossible not to believe in.
“He’ll go through a rock music phase in middle school,” he added, smirking. “You’ll have to buy noise-canceling headphones just to survive it.”
Andrea let out a startled laugh, a real, joyful laugh that made her chest ache in a different way.
“And then high school…” Asher’s eyes softened, his smile deepening. “He’ll be tall, handsome. The star football player. The one all the cheerleaders have a crush on.”
Andrea laughed again, this time with tears in her eyes—tears that no longer carried fear, but something warmer, something softer.
And when she looked up at Asher, she realized he was smiling too. A quiet, dreamy smile, like he could see every piece of this future as clearly as if it had already happened.
"But… how?" Andrea whispered, her voice barely holding together.
The tears that had stopped only moments ago came back with a vengeance, burning hot as they welled up in her eyes. She bit her lip hard, trying to hold them back, but it was useless.
“How?” she asked again, her voice breaking.
Asher’s soft smile deepened, his eyes glistening with something unspoken, something profound. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. Instead, he looked at her with a certainty that stole her breath.
"Because I will make sure it happens," he said, his voice steady, unwavering. "Because Asher Junior will be the happiest child in the world."
The words had barely left his lips when the baby kicked, so forcefully that Andrea let out a surprised little umph. Asher’s gaze snapped to her belly, his breath catching as he saw it—a tiny limb pressing out against her skin, a quiet hello from the life growing inside her.
His expression shifted then, his awe so raw, so beautiful, that it made Andrea’s heart ache. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his hand.
"May I?" he asked, his voice hushed, reverent.
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
His hands were warm as they pressed against her swollen belly, right under her navel, his touch so gentle it sent a shiver through her. And as if sensing him, the baby kicked again, stronger this time, as though acknowledging his presence.
Asher sucked in a breath, his eyes flicking up to hers, full of wonder. And then, without warning, he bent down and pressed a kiss against her belly—soft, lingering.
Andrea’s breath hitched.
Then he kissed her.
She wasn’t sure who moved first, if it was him or her, but suddenly, his lips were on hers—slow, careful, yet filled with something undeniable.
"Asher, I—" She meant to stop him.
This couldn’t happen. This wouldn’t go anywhere.
It would only end in pain.
It would hurt her.
She should have said all of that. But she couldn’t.
All she could do was stare into his beautiful, stormy blue eyes, utterly mesmerized, just as she had been when he had spun her a dream of a happy, healthy boy growing up with everything he had never had.
Only this time, he was showing her another dream.
A dream where she wasn’t alone.
A dream where she had him.
"I don’t care who I was before," Asher murmured, his forehead resting against hers. "I don’t care if I ever remember or not. But I never—never—want to forget this life that I have here, with you.”