Five and a half months

Sonya is five and a half months pregnant. I can feel the baby moving now when I put my hand on her stomach. The doctor said it's normal. I'm supposed to feel bonded or amazed or something.

Instead I feel trapped.

I took a photo of her belly this morning. She asked me to. She wanted to document it. I did it because saying no would raise questions. The photo will probably be something she shows people. Proof that I was there. That I participated. That I cared.

The lie works because I'm consistent. I show up. I go to appointments. I say supportive things. I perform the role of expecting father well enough that no one questions whether I actually want any of this.

Flavio called tonight. He's still in New York. He asked how I was doing. I told him everything is fine. That Sonya and I are good. That I'm ready for the baby.

None of that is true. But it's easier to lie to Flavio than to admit I'm completely empty inside and going through the motions of being a person.

I went to the gym this afternoon. Simona was there. She's started bringing that woman more often—Anneka, I think. They hold hands sometimes. There's real affection there. Real presence.

I watched them and felt like I was looking at something I could never have. Not because Simona doesn't want me. But because I'm not capable of the kind of presence that requires. I can't actually be with someone. I can only perform being with them.

Sonya has started nesting. Buying things. Organizing things. Preparing for a baby whose father doesn't want it and probably never will.

She's so hopeful. It's hard to watch.