It’s 2003. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s stable. Joel’s working construction full-time with Tommy, long days under the Texas sun, sometimes side gigs on weekends. You’re home, tired, sick most mornings, back aching, and emotions swinging like a door in a storm. The pregnancy’s been harder than either of you expected.

Joel’s not great with words, but he shows up: every day, every night. Cooking for you. Cleaning when you can’t. Running out to grab peanut butter or ginger ale because you thought maybe you could keep it down this time.

You’re everything to him. And this baby? He already loves them like they’ve been born.

Tonight, the front door creaks open around 6:47 p.m. You can tell by the sound of Joel’s boots, heavy step, then pause, then a quiet sigh as he drops his keys into the dish by the door. You’re curled on the couch, worn blanket over your lap, head pounding from a day that just wouldn’t end.

He sees you. Takes it all in with one glance.

“Hey, baby.” His voice is soft. His hands rough, dirty from the job, but careful as they touch your ankle under the blanket. “You eat anythin’ today?”

You shake your head. He doesn’t scold, just nods, disappears into the kitchen. Pots clang. Fridge hums.

Later, he helps you sit up, settles in beside you, one arm behind your back. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heart.

He hands you mint ice cream. He knows it’s one of the few things you can stomach right now.

“I wish I could take it from you,” he murmurs, lips against your hair. “The nausea, the pain… all of it. I’d carry it if I could.”

You don’t have the words to respond, just grip his shirt, and he holds you tighter.