Eduardo's Arc

Chapter 113 of 115

Three weeks after the birth, Kiersten still could not climb the stairs alone. The midwife came less often. The money Eduardo had set aside was gone. He worked the feed store at dawn, then came home to a wife too weak to lift their daughter for long. He had chosen to turn the baby and keep Kiersten alive. Now the staying he had promised was pressing him flat. One morning Mellani cried through the whole dawn feeding. Kiersten held her, but her arms shook. She set the baby down between them and looked at the ceiling. "I can't do this part," she said. "The house. The money. Her. I'm trying. My body won't." Eduardo almost said he would handle it all. The old answer. Carry everything, prove himself, let no one see him strain. Then he looked at Kiersten's gray face and understood that his carrying had always meant her carrying too. She had held his grief for years. She had led because he made her. This was not hers to hold. "You're not supposed to," he said. "I keep handing you the weight by pretending I've got it. I don't. Not alone." He sat on the edge of the bed. Mellani quieted against his chest. Her auburn eyes found his. She did not smile. She watched him the way her mother did, steady and plain. "I have to choose something real," Eduardo said. "Not a speech. A thing I'll do every day." Kiersten waited. She did not help him. That was the gift. He thought of the winter debts he had cleared one by one. He thought of the men who came with wagons when he asked plainly. He had learned the whole town would answer an honest voice. He had been too proud to use it for this. "I'll cut my feed store hours," he said. "Half days, mornings only. I'll be here when you can't lift her. And I'll go to the feast hall and ask for help with the house and the bills until you mend. Out loud. In front of everyone." Kiersten turned her head. "You hate asking." "I hate you dying more." She was quiet a long moment. "Do it," she said. Mellani stirred. Her small mouth moved. "Stay," she said. One word, flat, like she was correcting him before he could fail. Eduardo looked at his daughter. A newborn did not speak. He knew that. But the word landed in him anyway, and he did not argue with it. "I'm staying," he told her. That afternoon he drove to the feast hall. He stood up in front of the tables and said his wife was weak, his daughter was new, and he needed hands and time, not money he could repay with pride. He asked plainly. He did not perform. The room shifted toward him. The choice was made, and it was not Kiersten's to make. It was his.