Three weeks later, my injured arm was healing exceptionally well, so I finally brought a few of our personal things back to the house. I did not bring everything back, however, and Mason noticed the remaining bags right away.
“You’re keeping clothes at your mom’s place?” he asked carefully.
“Yes,” I replied truthfully.
“Because you don’t trust me?” he asked, a hint of hurt in his tone.
“Because I’m learning to trust myself,” I explained calmly. “If this ever falls apart again, I won’t wait until I’m completely broken to do something about it.”
Late that night, Noah started crying loudly from the nursery down the hall. I reflexively started to rise from the bed, my bad arm held close to my body.
Mason was already moving before I could stand up. “I’ve got him,” he said smoothly, throwing off his covers. “That’s his tired cry.”
