Winning Back His Ex's Wife's Broken Heart by Hayley

Sarah pov.

I woke up that morning with an idea buzzing in my mind like a persistent fly. It wasn't about reorganizing the nursery or tackling the endless list of baby-related tasks.

No, this was different. I wanted to create something lasting, something that could capture the whirlwind of emotions, changes, and funny little moments we'd experienced during this pregnancy.

A photo album. It seemed simple enough, but as I sat at the dining table with my laptop, scrolling through photos, I realized this was about more than just pictures.

It was about preserving memories, the kind we might laugh at or cry over years from now. The first snapshot I found was ofholding a pickle jar in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other, grinning like a lunatic.

"I forgot about that night," I murmured to myself, smiling. Richard had taken the picture after catchingsneaking into the kitchen at midnight. I remembered how he'd teasedfor days, callinghis "sweet-and- sour queen." "Perfect," I said, adding it to the album template.

The next few photos I found were more routine-belly shots we'd taken every month, selfies from doctor's visits, and a few pictures ofsurrounded by baby clothes. But as I scrolled further, I realized something was missing: Richard. Later that morning, I decided to change that. Richard was outside tinkering with something in the garage, so I grabbed my phone and quietly followed him.

Peeking through the doorway, I saw him hunched over a small bookshelf he'd decided to build for the nursery.

He was muttering to himself, a pencil tucked behind his ear and a tape measure in his hand. I couldn't resist. I snapped a quick photo.

"Caught in the act," I teased, stepping inside.

Richard looked up, startled. "What are you doing?" "Documenting history," I said, holding up my phone. "Future generations need to know how hard their dad worked." He rolled his eyes but smiled. "If you're going to take pictures, at least wait until I finish. This thing's still in pieces." "Exactly why I'm taking it now," I said, clicking another photo. "The before-and-after will be even better." He shook his head and went back to measuring, but I could see the faintest hint of a grin on his face. Over the next few days, I beca stealthy photographer, capturing candid moments of Richard without him noticing.

There was one of him unpacking a box of baby toys, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out how a rattle could be so complicated.

Another was of him holding up a tiny onesie, looking both amused and slightly terrified at how small it was. The best one, though, was when he fell asleep on the couch with a baby book open on his chest. I almost didn't take it because it felt too sweet to disturb, but I knew it belonged in the album.

By the tI finished, the photo album felt like a treasure chest. There were silly moments, like my midnight craving picture, and heartwarming ones, like Richard working on the nursery. I couldn't wait to show him. That evening, after dinner, I brought the laptop to the couch and sat beside him.

"What's this?" he asked, glancing at the screen.

"Something I've been working on," I said, opening the album.

The first photo popped up-the pickle-and-ice-cream shot. Richard laughed. "Oh, I remember this! You were so proud of that ridiculous combination." "I still stand by it," I said, nudging him playfully.

As we clicked through the album, his laughter turned into soft chuckles, then quiet smiles. When we reached the photos of him, his eyes widened. "Wait a minute," he said. "When did you take these?" "Secretly," I admitted. "You didn't think I'd let you off the hook, did you? This is our journey, and you're just as much a part of it as I am." He stared at the screen for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to me, his voice softer. "I didn't realize you noticed all this." "Of course I noticed," I said, placing a hand on his arm. "You're always doing these little things-building shelves, reading baby books, even just being there when I need you. I wanted to make sure you knew how much it matters." Richard didn't say anything for a while, but his hand found mine, squeezing it gently.

The next photo was of the nursery-a work in progress at the time. Richard pointed at the half-painted walls in the picture. "Remember when I accidentally bought the wrong shade of blue?" I laughed. "How could I forget? You were so determined to fix it that you stayed up all night repainting." "I didn't want you to be disappointed," he said.

"And I wasn't," I replied. "Not because of the color, but because you cared so much. That's what made it perfect." We kept flipping through the album, reminiscing about each moment.

There was the the'd surprisedwith a foot massage after a particularly long day, the tI'd m cried over a commercial and he'd huggedwithout asking why, and the twe'd both ended up on the floor of the nursery, laughing so hard we couldn't breathe because we couldn't figure out how to assemble a crib. "This has been a crazy few months," Richard said as we reached the end of the album.

"Crazy, but good," I agreed. "And it's only going to get crazier."

As we sat there, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. For all all my O moments of doubt and worry, there N was an underlying sense of calm that cfrom knowing we were in this together. "Thank you," I said suddenly.

Richard looked at me, puzzled. "For what?"

"For being you," I said. "For trying so hard, even when you don't have to For makinglaugh when I need it mest. For remindingthat we've got this." He smiled, pullinginto a hug. "Right back at you." I realized the album wasn't just about preserving memories. It was about reminding ourselves of the love and effort that had carried us this far.