MINE ALONE

Chapter 34:Adrain

Tomorrow.Three years.Three years since Jude became my husband.Three years since I promised to love him through every version of life we would encounter.I hadn’t realised that promise would one day include pill organisers.

Nutrition charts.

Blood tests.

Clinic waiting rooms.

And watching the strongest man I knew become exhausted simply because he was chasing a dream.

The last two months had changed me.

Every morning, I’d watch Jude line up those supplements on the kitchen counter.

He always made the same face.

“This one is definitely trying to poison me.”

I always answered the same way.

“No, sweetheart.”

“It just tastes awful.”

“I still think it’s personal.”

Then he’d swallow them anyway.

For us.

For our future.

For the tiny life we both hoped would someday exist.

Every single tablet reminded me of what he was willing to endure.

And every single one made me wish I could carry half of it for him.

⸻

I hated seeing him tired.

I hated watching him fall asleep halfway through films.

I hated the way he’d sometimes stare at dinner because his appetite had disappeared.

I hated hearing him apologise when he needed another afternoon nap.

He never had to apologise.

Not to me.

Never.

There were evenings I’d carry him upstairs because he was simply too worn out to argue anymore.

He’d mumble sleepily against my shoulder.

“I’m heavy.”

“No.”

“I am.”

“You’re my husband.”

“As if that explains anything.”

“It explains everything.”

He’d smile.

Then fall asleep before I even tucked him into bed.

Those moments broke my heart.

But they also reminded me exactly why I was doing this.

Because he wasn’t carrying this dream alone anymore.

We both were.

⸻

Tomorrow wasn’t just our anniversary.

It marked almost three years of choosing each other.

Every single day.

And if there was one thing I had learned about Jude…

It was that grand crowds never impressed him.

He didn’t care about newspaper headlines.

Or extravagant galas.

He wanted moments.

Quiet ones.

Real ones.

So I planned exactly that.

Just us.

Like every anniversary before.

⸻

The gifts had already arrived.

A hand-crafted collection of jewellery.

A limited-edition grand tourer I’d spent months sourcing.

A holiday home overlooking a peaceful lake where we’d once joked we’d retire before turning forty.

Legal documents transferring half of my personal ownership in the holding company into his name.

Not because he needed my wealth.

He had built an extraordinary career of his own.

But because I wanted him to know something.

Everything I built…

Was ours.

Every dream.

Every success.

Every future.

Ours.

Still…

None of those gifts mattered most.

Not even close.

⸻

For weeks, I’d been secretly renovating one room in the house.

Only the interior designer and I knew.

Every measurement had been checked twice.

Every colour approved personally.

Every tiny detail chosen with one person in mind.

Jude.

Not the baby.

Jude.

Because this room wasn’t about decorating for a child who hadn’t arrived.

It was about giving hope to the man who dreamed of becoming a father.

⸻

Our anniversary morning began quietly.

Exactly as he liked it.

Breakfast together.

Coffee.

Slow conversation.

No rushing.

No photographers.

No interruptions.

After exchanging smaller gifts over breakfast, we spent the afternoon wandering through the botanical gardens, laughing over memories from the past three years and stopping far too often because Jude wanted photographs of every flower that caught his attention.

Dinner was held at our favourite little Italian restaurant.

The owner greeted us like old friends.

Candles flickered gently across our private table.

Soft violin music drifted through the room.

Nothing extravagant.

Just peaceful.

Just us.

Exactly how Jude loved it.

⸻

When we returned home, he looked pleasantly tired.

“Can we change into something comfortable?”

“Not yet.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’ve planned something.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

He laughed.

“Liar.”

I covered his eyes gently with a silk ribbon.

“Trust me?”

He smiled instantly.

“Always.”

Slowly, I guided him through the hallway.

Past the staircase.

Past the study.

Until we reached the final door at the end of the corridor.

My heart was pounding.

More than any business negotiation.

More than any speech I’d ever given.

Because this mattered.

I untied the ribbon.

“You can look.”

⸻

Jude opened his eyes.

Then…

He stopped breathing.

The room beyond the doorway glowed softly beneath warm golden lights.

Cream-coloured walls.

A painted ceiling where tiny stars seemed to shimmer in the evening light.

A beautiful wooden cot stood near the window, left empty—not because someone was missing, but because it represented hope.

A comfortable rocking chair rested beside a tall bookshelf already filled with storybooks collected over the past year.

Shelves held little stuffed animals from places we’d travelled together.

A mobile of delicate clouds and stars hung above the cot.

One wall displayed framed photographs.

Not of children.

Of us.

Our wedding.

Our anniversaries.

Our travels.

Our laughter.

The story of two people waiting to welcome another chapter when the time was right.

Above the photographs, in elegant wooden lettering, were simple words.

Our greatest adventure is still to come.

On another wall hung a framed note.

I had written it myself.

To the little one we already love,

Whenever you arrive, know this:

You were hoped for long before you were held.

And before you ever take your first breath,

You already have two fathers who cannot wait to meet you.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then I heard it.

A shaky breath.

I turned.

Jude was crying.

Not quietly.

Not politely.

The kind of tears that came from somewhere impossibly deep.

He covered his mouth with trembling hands.

“You…”

His voice disappeared.

I walked over slowly.

“I know how hard these last two months have been.”

He looked around the nursery again.

“I’ve seen every injection.”

“Every appointment.”

“Every difficult morning.”

“I know how much hope you’ve been carrying.”

“So…”

I smiled gently.

“I wanted you to have somewhere to put that hope.”

He shook his head, overwhelmed.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He threw himself into my arms.

Holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

“I thought…”

His voice cracked.

“I thought you were only doing this because you loved me.”

I kissed his hair.

“I am.”

“But somewhere along the way…”

I looked around the room.

“…this dream became mine too.”

He cried harder.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“No.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me.

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I’ve never…”

He laughed through tears.

“…I’ve never been this happy.”

I rested my forehead against his.

“You deserve every bit of it.”

He looked around the nursery once more.

His fingers traced the edge of the rocking chair.

The bookshelf.

The little stars painted across the ceiling.

Then he whispered,

“It feels real now.”

“It does.”

⸻

Only after he had calmed down did I hand him one final envelope.

He frowned.

“Another gift?”

“Open it.”

He unfolded the papers slowly.

His eyes widened.

Then widened again.

“Adrian…”

He looked up in complete disbelief.

“You transferred half your shares to me?”

“I transferred half of my future.”

“I can’t accept this.”

“You already have.”

“It’s too much.”

I smiled.

“So were you.”

“What?”

“You gave me a reason to believe that my heart could grow.”

He blinked.

“And I wanted to give you something that reminded you…”

“There has never been a line between what’s mine and what’s yours.”

“We’ve always been building this life together.”

Fresh tears gathered in his eyes.

“You are impossible.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

He laughed.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

I wrapped my arms around him once more.

“You already have.”

“Every morning I wake up beside you.”

“That’s been enough since the day we met.”

He smiled into my shoulder.

Outside, the night was quiet.

Inside, we stood together in a room filled not with certainty, but with hope.

The nursery wasn’t a promise that everything would happen exactly as we wished.

It was a promise that whatever the future held—whether it came quickly or took longer than expected—we would face it together, with love, patience, and room in our hearts for the family we dreamed of building.

And as Jude reached for my hand and intertwined our fingers, I realised something that would have seemed impossible to the man I had been years ago.

I had once been afraid that sharing Jude’s love would mean losing part of him.

Standing beside him in that little room, I finally understood the truth.

Love had never been something to divide.

It was always something that made room for more.