The Weeks That Followed
1110 Words
Chapter Eight: The Weeks That Followed
Max was relentless. Every model Catherine submitted came back bleeding red—notes crammed into margins, entire sections slashed with sharp, precise strokes. He questioned her truss alignments like they were matters of life and death, recalculated her stress ratios with surgical precision, and even circled a single misplaced decimal point in her unit conversion as if it were a felony.
“I swear he bleeds ink,” Freda muttered one afternoon, leaning over Catherine’s desk to inspect the latest draft—again marked up like a battlefield.
Catherine sighed, flipping to the last page where he’d scrawled: “Good concept. But if this were real, your torsion failure would collapse the west span. Try again.”
“He’s probably got a red pen surgically attached to his hand,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.
But it wasn’t just the critiques.
When Leo came down with a fever and Mira cried through the night, Catherine had to miss a key site visit. She expected to be reprimanded.
Instead, Max sent a curt email:
"Handled the visit. Your son is more important. We’ll debrief Monday. —M.H."
When she returned to the office, Mira’s juice-stained blueprints were nowhere to be found. In their place sat crisp, reprinted plans. No one said a word. But the corner of Max’s mouth lifted ever so slightly when she walked in.
Max didn’t dismiss her. He challenged her. Held her work to the same impossible standard he held his own. And behind every brutal correction, there was something else—expectation.
He was watching her closely. Not to catch her mistakes, but to see if she’d rise above them.
And that made her want to.
For the first time in years, she didn’t just want to finish a project. She wanted to be better. Sharper. Stronger.
She wanted to hand Max a design he couldn’t bleed red through.
And that thought—more than any note in the margins—kept her up at night, sketching solutions long after the office had emptied.
Late One Evening
Catherine stayed behind in the model room, hunched over a stack of stress load calculations. Her eyes burned from staring too long. Her pencil snapped. She muttered a curse under her breath.
Max walked in, jacket slung over one shoulder.
“You’ve been here since morning,” he said, pausing beside her.
She didn’t even look up. “Can’t afford to fall behind.”
He leaned over her notes. “You over-corrected the tension tolerance. By trying to make it safer, you actually weakened the whole span.”
Catherine groaned and slumped forward, forehead on the table. “I hate that you’re always right.”
He chuckled. “It’s annoying. I know.”
She turned her head just enough to glance up at him. “Ever think about saying ‘great job’ first?”
“I’d rather you learn to spot it yourself,” he replied. But then, softly: “For what it’s worth… I am impressed.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“You carry more than most people ever have to,” he said simply. “And somehow… you still manage to stand tall.”
There was silence—one of those rare, comfortable ones. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.
One Quiet Night
In their little flat, Catherine had just finished brushing Mira’s hair and tucking her into bed when she noticed Leo lying still, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Too quiet.
She sat beside him. “What’s on your mind, baby?”
He hesitated. “Mom… can I ask something?”
“Always.”
He turned to face her, voice small. “Why don’t I look like you or Mira?”
Her breath caught. She’d known the question would come. Just… not this soon.
“You came from a different mommy and daddy,” she said gently. “But I chose to raise you. I chose to love you.”
He twisted the edge of his blanket. “So… I’m not really yours?”
She cupped his face, eyes stinging. “Leo… you’re really mine. Maybe not from my tummy. But from the very first moment I held you—I knew. You’re my son. In every way that matters.”
His lip trembled. “Will… will they come for me? My first mom or dad?”
“No, sweetheart.” She pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly. “They gave you up. But I never will. Not ever.”
Leo didn’t say anything. He just pressed his face into her shoulder and cried.
She cried too—quietly, fiercely—rocking him like she had when he was a baby, promising silently that she would never let the past reach him.
Later That Week
Catherine stood alone in the firm’s model room, hands stuffed into her pockets, eyes unfocused as she stared through the glass at the bustling street below. The ache from that night hadn’t left her.
Footsteps. Then Max, voice low: “Rough night?”
She didn’t turn. “My son asked if I was going to give him up.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then, “And what did you say?”
“I told him no. That I’d never let anyone take him again.” Her voice cracked a little. “Not ever.”
Max moved closer—not touching, just near enough for warmth. “You’re stronger than you think.”
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired, but warm. “And you’re kinder than you pretend.”
That earned a small smile.
“I’m still terrifying, though,” he added, straight-faced.
She laughed—a soft, real laugh. “Like a grumpy Viking.”
He held out her coat. “Let me walk you home.”
She blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His tone was gentle. “But I want to.”
They walked in silence at first. The kind of silence that had shifted now—no longer stiff or professional, but something easier.
At the door to her flat, she turned to him. “Thank you.”
“For the walk?” he asked.
“For seeing me. Not just my mistakes. But… me.”
He nodded once. “Always.”
She hesitated, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. Just a brush.
Max didn’t move, but his voice was low when he spoke again. “Goodnight, Catherine.”
She watched him go, heart beating too fast.
And for the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel so heavy.
- Writer
