His name was Nathaniel

113

The apartment was quiet when Nathaniel returned. Not the comforting, peaceful kind of quiet—but the heavy, echoing kind that made even the click of his shoes on the floor feel too loud.

He loosened his tie and exhaled as he stepped into the living room, where the soft scent of Adaliya's perfume still lingered faintly in the air. Her scarf was draped over the back of a chair. A pair of her flats lay by the door. She had been here just hours ago.

But everything felt... far away.

Nathaniel moved slowly, mind still echoing with his grandfather's words, his own sobs, and the overwhelming truth he could no longer run from:
He was going to be a father.
And someday, he was going to leave them.

Instead of sitting down or grabbing something to eat, he crossed the apartment and entered his home office.

He closed the door quietly behind him.

The glow of the monitor lit the room as he booted up his computer, cracked his knuckles, and opened a blank document.

There was no use pretending. He had to prepare.

He spent the next hour drafting legal letters—trust funds in the baby's name, clauses for guardianship, education funds, inheritance stipulations. All of it done with quiet determination.

After that, he opened a secure folder titled Personal. Inside, he created a series of subfolders:
    •    Birthday 1
    •    Birthday 5
    •    Sweet 16
    •    Graduation
    •    If I'm Gone Too Soon

He stared at the last folder for a long time before opening a recording app.

His throat felt tight. He looked into the lens of the webcam.

And for the first time in his life, Nathaniel Donovan recorded a video message for a child he hadn't even met yet.

"Hey, little one..."

⸻

It was past sunset when the front door opened again.

Adaliya stepped in, arms full of small bags and folded baby clothes.

"Nathaniel?" she called gently.

"In the office."

She walked in and found him seated behind his desk, typing. His expression was focused, but his energy was distant.

She hesitated. "I went by this little shop after work," she said, holding up a small onesie with a printed quote: "Hi, Daddy!"

Nathaniel glanced up and gave her a tight smile. "That's cute."

She laughed awkwardly. "There was another one that said Future CEO but I thought that was too much."

"Maybe."

She waited for a comment, a joke, anything.

But he went back to typing.

Her smile faltered. "I'll put them away."

He nodded without looking up.

She left the office slowly, the bags feeling heavier in her arms now.

⸻

Later that night, they sat on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background. Adaliya had placed the baby clothes neatly in a basket nearby, hoping he'd notice. He didn't.

She looked over at him. He was reading an email on his phone, barely blinking.

"Nathaniel?"

"Hm?"

"Do you even want this baby?"

His eyes flicked up.

She swallowed. "You're... here, but you're not here. You talk about guardianship and trust funds and folders named after birthdays you might miss. But you haven't once held those clothes. You haven't even touched my stomach."

Nathaniel put the phone down.

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?" she asked, eyes glassy.

He looked away. "From me. From all of this."

She didn't respond. She didn't cry. She just sat there—fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, the lights from the TV flickering across her sad, tired face.

And Nathaniel... didn't know how to fix it.

Not yet.

But maybe he was about to learn.