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

Sarah pov.

The air was crisp, the kind of weather that madewant to wrap up in a soft scarf and take my time. My belly was starting to feel heavier these days, and every step remindedthat I was carrying a whole other person inside me. It was surreal when I thought about it too much, so instead, I focused on the rhythm of my sneakers against the sidewalk as I strolled through our neighborhood.

Mrs. Harper, our elderly neighbor, was trimming the roses in her garden. She looked up when she saw me, her face lighting up with a kind of joy that made you feel instantly at ease.

"Sarah, dear!" she called, waving her clippers. "Look at you, glowing like the morning sun!" I laughed, touching my cheek instinctively. "I think it's the sweat, Mrs. Harper. Walking around with this bump is a workout." She chuckled, setting the clippers down and coming closer. "Oh, I remember those days well. My Harold used to joke that I waddled like a duck. But you know, those were sof the best times of my life." Her words caughtoff guard, and I smiled, leaning slightly on the fence. "Really? Even with all the discomfort and exhaustion?" "Oh, especially because of those," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Every ache, every moment of doubt-it all melts away when you hold that baby for the first time. You'll see." I nodded, swallowing a lump in my throat. "I hope I'm ready for it. It feels like there's so much to figure out, and I'm just... I don't know." Mrs. Harper reached out and patted my hand gently. "No one ever feels ready, sweetheart. But you'll learn as you go. And from what I've seen, you've got a good heart. That's the most important thing." We chatted for a few more minutes before I continued on my walk, her words lingering in my mind. A good heart. It seemed so simple, but the way she said it madebelieve it was enough.

When I got back home, I sat down at the kitchen table, a notebook in front of me. I'd been meaning to start journaling again, but life had a way of getting in the way. Now, though, it felt like the right time. Flipping to a blank page, I hesitated, the pen hovering over the paper. What do you say to someone you haven't even met yet? Finally, I started writing: Dear Daughter, I can't wait to meet you. Every day, I wonder what you'll be like. Will you have your dad's big, kind eyes? Or his goofy laugh? Will you like books like I do, or will you find your own thing? I hope you know how much you're already loved. Even though I feel scared sometimes, I promise to do my best for you.

The words flowed easier after that, each one pullingdeeper into the moment. I wrote about the little things- how I cried over a TV commercial last week, how your dad talks to you through my belly when he thinks I'm asleep, how I can't stop eating peanut butter straight from the jar.

I didn't realize how much thad passed until Richard cthrough the door. His hair was tousled, and there was a faint smudge of paint on his sleeve from working on the nursery.

"Hey," he said, his face lighting up when he saw me. "What are you up to?" I closed the notebook quickly, feeling a bit shy. "Just... writing." He raised an eyebrow. "Writing? Like a diary?" "Sort of," I admitted. "It's for the baby. Something for her to read one day, maybe when she's older." Richard's expression softened, and he leaned over to kiss the top of my head. "That's a beautiful idea. You're going to makecry, you know." I laughed, but my cheeks warmed. "It's just little things. Nothing fancy." "Still," he said, sitting down across from me. "I think she's going to treasure it." Later that evening, I found Richard in the living room, the notebook open in his lap.

For a moment, I felt a pang of embarrassment-this was supposed to be private, something for the baby-but when I saw the look on his face, I couldn't be mad. "Caught you," I said, folding my arms as I walked in.

He looked up, sheepish but smiling. "Sorry. I couldn't help myself. This is... it's amazing, Sarah." I sat down beside him, taking the notebook from his hands. "You really think so?" He nodded, his voice soft. "Yeah. It's like... it's like you're putting your heart on these pages. It's beautiful." My chest tightened, and I opened the book to one of the entries I'd written earlier. "Wantto read you something?" Richard leaned back, resting his arm along the back of the couch. "I'd love that." I cleared my throat, feeling oddly nervous, and began: Dear Daughter, Today, your dad and I heard your heartbeat again. It was so strong, like you were saying, 'I'm here! I'm ready!' It madethink about how fast things are changing and how much there is to learn. But no matter what, we're in this together. Your dad is going to be the best. He already talks to you all the time, even if he doesn't think I notice. He loves you so much, and so do I.

When I finished, I looked up to see Richard wiping his eyes.

"Okay," he said, his voice thick. "Now I'm crying." I laughed, though my own throat felt tight. "It's just silly little thoughts." "No," he said, shaking his head. "It's not silly. It's perfect." He pulledinto a hug, and I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For a while, we just sat there, wrapped up in each other and quiet.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about Mrs. Harper's words again. A good heart. Maybe she was right. Maybe that was the most important thing.

I rested my hand on my belly, feeling the faint flutter of movement beneath my skin. "We're going to be okay," I whispered. "I promise." And for the first tin a while, I believed it.

*** The next morning, I woke up with a sense of purpose. My hand instinctively went to my belly, and I felt the now- familiar curve under my palm.

The baby had been moving more frequently lately, tiny little flutters that remindedI wasn't alone. It was comforting in a way I never thought possible.

Richard was already up, the sound of cabinets opening and closing coming from the kitchen. I smiled, picturing him fumbling around for a coffee mug or trying to figure out how to make breakfast without setting off the smoke alarm.

I got out of bed, stretched, and shuffled into the kitchen. There he was, wearing an old T-shirt and pajama pants, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked up when he heardand grinned.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, holding up a plate of what I assumed were scrambled eggs. "Morning," I replied, leaning against the counter. "What's this? Breakfast in bed?" He shrugged, looking proud of himself. "Sort of. I thought you deserved a little pampering." I laughed, taking the plate from him. "Thanks, but I think it's safer if I eat at the table. Remember the pancake incident?" Richard winced tically. "Hey, that was one time. And for the record, I think setting a pancake on fire is harder than it looks." We sat down together, and as I took a bite, I realized the eggs were actually good. "Okay, I'll give you this one. You're improving." "Improving?" he said, feigning offense. "I'm basically a chef now. You're lucky to have me." I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop smiling. Moments like this, when it was just the two of us laughing over something silly, made everything else feel manageable.

After breakfast, I decided to add another entry to the journal. I took it to the living room, curling up on the couch with a pen in hand.

Dear Baby,

This morning, your dad madebreakfast. It was simple-just scrambled eggs-but it meant then world to me. He's trying so hard to be the best dad for you, and I know he's going to be amazing. We're both figuring this out as we go, but one thing's for sure: you're already the center of our world. I paused, chewing on the end of the pen. What else could I tell the baby? There was so much I wanted to say, so many hopes and dreams swirling in my mind.

I wonder what kind of person you'll be. Will you be curious about everything, asking a million questions like Lused to? Or will you be calm and thoughtful, taking your tto figure things out? Whatever you choose to be, know that we'll love you exactly as you are. The words felt like they cstraight from my heart. Writing to the baby was becoming a kind of therapy for me, a way to process everything that was happening.

That afternoon, Richard and I decided to tackle the ever-growing list of baby preparations. The nursery was mostly done, but there were still a few finishing touches to add.

"Okay," Richard said, standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips. "What's next?" I looked around, trying to figure out where to start. "The shelves need organizing. And we should probably figure out where to put the rocking chair." Richard nodded, then pointed at the pile of baby books on the floor. "And what about those? Are we actually going to read all of them?" I laughed, picking up one of the books. "Probably not. But they look nice on the shelf." As we worked, Richard kept up a steady stream of commentary, makinglaugh so hard at one point that I had to sit down.

"You know," he said, holding up a tiny onesie with a confused expression, "I still don't understand why baby clothes have so many buttons. Like, aren't babies supposed to be wiggly? This seems like a design flaw." "Welcto parenthood," I said, grinning.

By the twe were done, the nursery looked more organized than it had in weeks. The rocking chaîn was in place, the shelves were neatly arranged, and even the pile of baby books had found a home. Richard stood back, admiring our handiwork. "Not bad, huh?" "Not bad at all," I agreed.

That evening, as we sat on the couch, I handed Richard the journal. "I added something today. Want to read it?" He took it from me, flipping to the new entry. As he read, his expression softened, and I could see the emotion in his eyes.

"Sarah," he said, his voice thick, "this is... I don't even have words." I smiled, feeling a little shy. "It's just how I feel." He set the journal down and pulledinto his arms. "You're amazing, you know that? Our baby's so lucky to have you." I rested my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. "I think we're both pretty lucky."