– bluecollar!rafe who… is always up at 4 a.m. sharp, even on weekends. you drag yourself out of bed just to see him off, make sure he has everything he needs. your hair messy and eyes half-shut, and he groans every time. “baby, go back to bed,” he mumbles, pulling a hoodie over his head, “lookin’ too damn pretty to be up this early,” giving you a small kiss on your forehead.
– blue collar!rafe who… is always using your nail glue to seal up the bad cuts he gets at work. won’t go to urgent care, won’t let it “air out,” just grabs the pink bottle that he keeps in his truck. you surprise him one day—show up with his lunch, catch him mid-squeeze, glue sealing a split across his palm. he barely looks up, flexes his bleeding hand, and says, “ain’t that what it’s for?”
– bluecollar!rafe who… has hands that are always rough, calloused, and covered in fresh cuts—dirt under his nails, knuckles scabbed from who knows what. you wince every time you take them in, but he just shrugs, flexing his fingers like it’s no big deal. “just means i’m gettin’ work done,” he always tells you.
– bluecollar!rafe who… is quietly saving cash in the safe to buy land and build your dream home.
– bluecollar!rafe who… constantly brags about his “old lady” even though you are much younger than him and it makes you frown. “don't matter,” he says, mouth full of your homemade dinner. “you keep the house runnin’. I ain't got shit without you.”
– bluecollar!rafe who… never lets you take your car to the shop. check engine light? car making funny noises? he pulls codes with a handheld scanner he swears paid for itself. oil change? brake pads squealing? he’s already outside in the garage, sleeves rolled up, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, “why the hell would you pay some guy when you've got me, huh?” slamming the hood shut like it's personal.
– bluecollar!rafe who… always leaves nails, screws, folded receipts, and random bills in every pocket. when you fish out a crumpled $50, it goes straight into your pocket.
– bluecollar!rafe who… keeps a jar in the laundry room labeled “Rafe’s Hardware Fund”. and one day you're just so overstimulated you throw it out. he doesn’t say anything at first, just walks in, opens the empty shelf, and stares at it. “you seen my jar?” you don’t respond. his argument? “those were perfectly good roofing nails in there. You tryna sabotage me, sweetheart?”
– bluecollar!rafe who… doesn't give a damn about OSHA’s safety guidelines. you’ve given up lecturing him about safety gear—he just smirks, “baby, I’ve been doin’ this shit forever. OSHA ain’t gonna tell me how to work.”
thank you to @cherrywriterrr and @moondustbaby who inspired me to obsess over bluecollar!rafe. and thank you to the blue-collar loser i was engaged to for 2 years for inspiring most of these (i hope you have the day you deserve. which hopefully is terrible!)
Warnings: sexual harassment implied, irritated rafe, other than that it's domestic fluff.
Word Count: 635
𐂯 ⁰ᨵᩥ⁰ 𐂯
Work boots thudded against the stairs leading up to the front door, sending your German shepherd, Winnie, barking. You set down the spoon you're stirring the mashed potatoes with, smoothing your pink apron as Rafe enters the house.
Winnie immediately jumps up, her tail wagging and tongue sticking out as she forces her daddy to hold her, as if Rafe can support her weight the way one would with a small dog. You smile at the sight, watching your husband pet the excited animal.
"Hey Winnie-bear." Rafe says tiredly, scratching the dog behind her ears. "You look tired," you observe quietly. His eyes meet yours, a slow blink confirming his exhaustion. Winnie finally gets off of him, giving you the chance to approach and wrap him up in a hug.
"Dinner is almost ready." you mumble against his drenched shirt. "Smells good, babydoll." he kisses the top of your head, his strong arms pulling you closer in a warm embrace.
The two of you enter the kitchen, Rafe immediately taking a seat while you plate his and your food. Winnie crawls under the old mahogany table, nudging your husband's legs in a quiet camaraderie of 'you're feeding me too, right?' Rafe's mouth twitches, he leans down and scratches under the dog's chin, just how she likes it.
You set the table, "How was your day?" you ask, grabbing him a cold beer from the fridge, quickly placing a coaster to catch the condensation when he puts it down. "Good, still dealing with that write up from HR." He picks up his fork, taking the first bite like a test, savoring the flavor for a split second before digging in like a starved man. You nod, taking a big bite yourself, not carelessly messy.
"I told you not to get into fights—"
"I didn't." Rafe cuts you off, his voice firm but not harsh. "But I'm not gonna let some motherfucker talk about you like you're a piece of meat." He adds, angrily spooning mashed potatoes into his mouth. They did little to soothe his anger but it reminded him of his mama's cooking so it pacified him enough for you to get another word in.
"I know that, and I love you. But Rafe, you can't lose a job over something like that." your voice is soft, nothing like the hellish anger in his deeper one. "I don't want to talk about it." he simply says, finding no reason to carry on the conversation if it was just going to ruin your wonderful dinner. You look down at your plate again, dropping the topic as you think of something to lighten the mood.
Rafe grabs a piece of steak and tosses it down to Winnie, who excitedly eats it as if you don't go to the store and buy her expensive wet food every other week. After a moment, "You stink by the way." you state dryly, the sarcasm clear as day and dragging a rough laugh from Rafe.
"Asshole. You think I don't know that?" he smirks, glancing up from his steak, you'd cooked it just right. You huff, your lips pulling into a small smile. "Just thought you should know." you reply, picking up your drink. "Want to shower with me?" he asks. It's not flirty, sexual teasing, it's just soft. Something so simple yet so vulnerable he'd only want with you.
You set your drink down, "Yeah, I can wash your back." you offer. "Yeah, I can wash your ass." he adds, unable to resist a raunchy comment.
"Shut up!" you chide, feeling embarrassed but laughing anyway. He chuckles with you, shaking his head as he lifts the beer to his lips. "You're so gross." you groan, shaking your head too. He grins. "I just love you.. and your ass."
WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ first time sex, superrr soft sex, praising, light swearing, fingering, basically a word dump lol
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ slightly longer fic than usual! you’re responsible for the content you consume.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ 1.0k
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and requests are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
the line of friendship between you and rafe was blurry.
it started with a lingering touch on your thigh. which turned into you sitting on his lap. which turned into you being with him at all times. which turned into him kissing you when he felt like it.
you still referred to him as your best friend, even if you acted like his girlfriend and even if he treated you like you were his. which is why you felt comfortable telling him how dry your love life was— and why he felt comfortable enough to ‘help’ you.
his lips moved softly over yours, his palm roaming over the soft skin of your thigh, his nose brushing against yours with every press of his lips on yours. “s’this okay?” he mumbled softly, palming at your inner thigh.
your gave a shaky nod, not trusting your voice not to crack, the heat in your cheeks almost unbearable. s’not that you’ve never kissed a boy or did anything romantic— s’the fact that you’re a virgin, with a crush on her best friend like every other girl on the island. he’d barely gotten your shirt off without you squirming underneath him, letting out a breathy chuckle against your sternum.
his fingers dipped lower, lower, lower— sly fingers untying your pajama bottoms effortlessly and tugging them down your thighs, easing you onto your back with a soft kiss against your neck. you keened at the touch, your hips bucking against his palm out of instinct, heat flooding your stomach even more at the smug grin rested on his lips.
“y’warm as hell, baby.” he mumbled, littering kisses against your stomach and across your chest. “barely got your panties off, yet you’re buckin’ into me like i’m inside you.”
you let out a groan, a pout tugging at your lips as your eyes flickered to his. “just— take them off, c’mon.”
your voice was whiny, needy even— your fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties alongside his, attempting to rush them down your thighs, feeling the gusset stick to your center.
he tossed the fabric aside, fingers moving to his boxers, tugging them off hastily as he groaned— trying not to look at the needy expression on your face, trying to reel himself in. the fabric hit the floor, revealing the thick length of him, the tip red and pearly, pre-cum pooled at the top.
“s’this okay?” his voice was quiet, muffled against the soft skin of your inner thigh, rubbing over your entrance with thick fingertips. you gave a shaky nod of your head, barely able to hear him through the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your thighs twitching when he eased them in, a soft squeak of a moan leaving your lips, eyes squeezing shut.
his touch was gentle, almost too gentle for hands that were buried beneath car parts all day, for hands that pumped your gas for you, hands that build the same bookshelf his body was concealing from your view. the pads of his fingers drug over your walls, easing out to swipe through your folds, circling your clit with a quiet hum.
“rafe,” your voice was small, heavy with arousal and need that he caused, your fingers wrapping around the thick muscle of his arms. “need you inside me, please—“
you barely finished your sentence before he was leaning back up, tearing open the condom packet on your dresser, sliding the latex onto his dick with a practiced ease, planting a free hand next to your torso as he lined himself up.
he hooked your legs over his shoulders, the thickness of him between your legs making your vision almost cloudy, a ragged exhale leaving you when he pushed in, slow— till he was fully inside of you, till you felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“you’re so fuckin’— shit,” he groaned, rolling his hips into you with a quiet huff of air, pressing a kiss against your ankle, holding onto you by the crook of your knee. “so fuckin’ tight f’me, baby.”
your fingers wrapped around his arm like a vice, quiet moans of his name muffled behind your palm, that honeyed voice murmuring— “i know, baby, i know.”
“rafe—“ you started, your thighs twitching instinctively as your hips bucked upward. “m’gonna cum—“
he was already there, the rough pad of his thumb on your clit making you squirm, his free hand rubbing against your torso in an attempt to calm you down. his lips pressed into yours, before peppering small kisses over your cheeks, your forehead, your nose— anywhere he could reach.
“i know, baby,” he cooed quietly, pressing featherlight kisses against your cheek. “jus’ let go f’me, baby, hold my hand.”
his fingers laced with yours, holding your hand when your eyes squeezed, groaning when you came around him with a muffled cry of his name, your pussy squeezing around his dick like you couldn’t let him go, his own voice wrecked when he let go.
your chest was heaving when he pulled out, tying off the condom and throwing it away, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
Housewife reader struggling physical with postpartum, the constant cries from the newborn the breastfeeding lack of sleep and the discomfort from birth. :(
you ask, you shall receive :) (this is the earlier days when milo was just a newborn)
The house was quiet except for Milo’s soft, hiccupy cries. The kind that weren’t loud enough to panic over but never really stopped. You were in the rocking chair, again. Shirt half unbuttoned, nursing bra down, blanket over one shoulder, eyes glassy from staring at nothing.
Your body still hurt. Not in the sharp, sudden way like the first few days. But in that slow, deep, dull ache that never quite left. Like your bones hadn’t caught up with everything yet.
Your chest was sore. Your back was tight. Your nipples felt raw.
Milo kept unlatching and crying. Then latching wrong. Then crying again.
You were so tired.
You didn’t hear the front door open.
You didn’t hear Rafe come in, or kick off his boots, or whisper a “hey baby” like he usually did.
But you felt him stop in the doorway.
And when you didn’t say anything — didn’t even turn your head — he knew.
“Milo asleep?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. “No.”
You didn’t mean for your voice to sound so flat. But you didn’t have the energy to fix it.
He crossed the room, crouched beside the chair. You saw the frown on his face before you saw the sweat on his shirt.
You whispered, “He’s not latching right again.”
Rafe glanced at the baby in your arms, then back at you.
“You want me to try?”
You shook your head quickly — too quickly. “He wants me. It’s always me. I’m all he wants.” You say, almost frustratedly.
There was silence.
Then your voice cracked:
“I haven’t showered in three days. I haven’t brushed my hair. I bled through the sheets last night and I didn’t even notice.”
Rafe’s eyes softened. “Baby—”
You looked at him then. Really looked. And it all tumbled out.
“I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel pretty. I don’t even feel like a person. Just a machine that feeds and rocks and cries.”
He reached for your hand, but you pulled back.
“I love him,” you whispered, tears slipping out. “God, I love him. But I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”
Rafe stayed quiet, then stood slowly. You thought he was going to walk away — maybe to go shower or fix dinner — but instead, he leaned down and carefully lifted Milo from your arms. Held him against his chest like he’d done it a hundred times.
“C’mere,” he said softly, nudging your knees apart with his hips, settling in the chair with you in his lap. One arm around the baby. One around you.
You cried into his shirt, finally.
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing,” he murmured into your hair. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.”
He rocked gently, the three of you pressed together.
“I’ll take the next one,” he whispered. “You just rest, alright? Let me hold both of you a while.”
And for the first time in hours — in days — you let go.
You woke up to the sound of gentle humming. A low, off-tune version of something familiar.
The house was still dim — early morning — but the sun was just beginning to warm the curtains.
You blinked.
You were… in bed.
You didn’t remember getting there.
Your chest was tender, but the aching throb had dulled. The soreness was background noise now. And for the first time in what felt like a century, your head wasn’t pounding.
You realized, slowly: I slept.
Not a nap. Not a half-hour twitchy doze. Real sleep.
You sat up fast — panicked. “Milo—”
“He’s fine,” a voice said gently from down the hall.
You followed it.
And what you saw in the kitchen made your throat close up.
Rafe — shirtless, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes — holding Milo to his chest with one arm, bottle in the other hand, barefoot, swaying gently while humming some nonsense melody.
You stopped in the doorway.
He looked up and grinned. “Well, hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”
You blinked, still caught in that thick fog of just-woke-up emotion.
“I… you fed him?”
“Yep. You slept through the whole bottle.”
You stepped closer, slowly. “Was he okay?”
“Didn’t cry once,” he said. “Kinda scary, honestly. Thought maybe I was magic.”
You snorted. “You’re not.”
“Let me have this.”
You slid into his arms, resting your forehead against Milo’s soft head.
“You’re really good at this,” you whispered.
Rafe looked down at you — sweat and all, tired as hell — and kissed the top of your head.
Blue collar!Rafe with his girl thats still in school
Blue collar!Rafe that gets home to find his girl studying on his living room floor, the coffee table pushed forward and couch cushions sprawled out around her.
Blue collar!Rafe that gets up at 4 am for work everyday and reader that follows him into the bathroom and watches as he makes his coffee with tired, barely open eyes. He always tries to plead with her to stay in bed, "Sweet pea, stay in bed for me, ok?" Whispered against her neck as he reaches over her to turn his alarm off. "Mmm, no," is always whispered right back as she stretches.
Blue collar!Rafe that takes his buddies out to dinner after a tough day to visit his darling girl who’s working late nights as a waitress to make her share of rent this month. “There’s my girl,” with a proud grin that makes her knees weak. They spend hundreds on food and beer, and he always makes sure to tip his favorite server well. She’s at her station gathering the checks from her last few tables of the night when she sees the hundred dollar bill sticking out from table 9’s check. Opening it to see not one, but three large bills with a note on the receipt, “Incredible service, might just have to take ya home with me ;)” and she can’t help but giggle.
Blue collar!Rafe that just loves to brag about how smart is girl is.
“So what’s your girl do?”
“My girl? Nah she’s in school, doin’ real well too” while smirking and pulling up photos of you.
Blue collar!Rafe who is always over at her place helping repair things around the house, looking at her roommates’ cars, building shelves and putting together new outdoor furniture while her and her girls watch and update him on gossip.
Blue collar!Rafe who sits uncomfortably rigid with a scowl on his face when her cat sits on his lap. He thinks she isn’t aware of the fact that he picks her up and kisses her soft tummy until she’s purring the moment she leaves the room. He loves her to pieces, but he’ll never admit that he’s soft for a cat.
Blue collar!Rafe that has large, rough hands that always seem to be creeping up his girl’s clothes searching for warmth. At least that’s what he says, she knows that it’s really because he just wants to have his hands on her.
Blue collar!Rafe that loves to show off his chiseled chest and bulging arms as he works in the heat, hat on backwards and jeans hanging low on his hips as he sneaks peaks at his girl. It drives her crazy and Rafe knows just how to push her buttons
Blue collar!Rafe that hates that you don’t live together, always begging you to sleep over at his so he can have you to himself. He knows that you want to have the college experience of living with your friends, but he can’t help but be jealous that your friends spend so much more time with you than he does.
Blue collar!Rafe who can’t draw but has notebooks hidden in the glove compartment of his truck, filled with sketches of the home he plans to build for the two of you.
Blue collar!Rafe who’s just so manly and rough around the edges that you can’t possibly keep your hands to yourself when you’re around.
note: I'm sorry this took so long to publish pls forgive me, but thank you for your patience. Please reblog and like🎀
warnings: emotional distress, toxic relationship, pregnancy, mentions of birth, toxic family dynamics
It’s the next morning, and even though the air still feels a little heavy, Margaret’s energy is doing a lot to lift the mood. She’s moving around the kitchen like she always does, humming softly, acting like everything’s okay. And somehow, just that—her being her—makes things feel a little less tense.
She’s always the one smoothing things over when Rafe and I butt heads. It’s like she can’t help but try to keep the peace, even when it’s not her mess to clean up. I feel guilty watching her do it, like she’s carrying the weight of keeping us all okay when she shouldn’t have to.
I wake up earlier than usual, but Rafe’s already in the kitchen, sitting there with a cup of coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s always belonged there. Like nothing ever happened.
There’s something about the way he’s so at ease that gets under my skin—not angry, just... unsettled. He’s acting like this is just another morning, like we’re just a family, like we didn’t fall apart a hundred times before this.
Rafe looks up from his coffee as I walk in, his eyes tracking me like he’s trying to read something in my face. I know I look like hell—barely slept, head still full of things I wish I’d said.
He nods, that slight smirk playing on his lips, like none of it matters. Like last night didn’t happen.
“Morning,” he says, like it’s just any other day.
The casual tone makes something tighten in my chest. He’s too comfortable, too at ease—like he can just pick up where we left off without acknowledging the wreckage between us. And somehow, that bothers me more than if he’d just come out swinging.
“Are you leaving today, right?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than I meant—like the answer might matter more than I want to admit.
Rafe pauses, takes a slow sip of his coffee. His face doesn’t give much away.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Figured I’d head out later today.”
Rafe stands, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He walks over slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do what he’s about to do. Then, without saying anything, he rests his hand gently on my bump.
He doesn’t speak right away—just stays there, still and quiet, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. Like he knows this moment might not come again, and he’s trying to hold onto it with everything he has.
“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?” he asks finally, his voice low.
I feel the weight of his hand on my bump, and for a moment, I’m frozen—caught between wanting to pull away and needing to hold on to whatever this is. His touch is so gentle, like he's afraid of breaking something.
I glance up at him, and for a split second, his eyes meet mine—there’s something there, something I can’t quite name. It’s not anger, not regret, just… a quiet kind of knowing.
“Next week,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t want to say more, don’t want to explain, because I know if I do, this moment might break, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
He nods, his hand lingering for just a second longer before he pulls it away. The air feels heavier, like something unspoken is hanging between us, but neither of us knows how to reach for it.
“Good,” he says quietly, but there’s no relief in his voice—just that same weight that’s been between us for too long.
The door creaks open, and Margaret steps in, her face lighting up when she sees us. Her smile is bright, almost like she’s trying to will the tension out of the room. “Good morning!” she says cheerfully, her voice filled with that contagious energy of hers.
But then, as she notices the quiet between Rafe and me, something shifts. Her eyes flicker to him, and for a second, there’s that small, unmistakable sadness in her gaze—like she’s just realized what we’ve all been trying to avoid.
She hesitates for a moment, then looks back at me, offering a forced but warm smile. “Dad, you’re leaving today, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t say anything, just gives her a small nod, and that’s enough to make the smile slip from her face, just a little. She doesn’t say anything more, but I can see it—the way her shoulders sag slightly, the way she holds herself back from asking the questions she’s probably too afraid to voice.
—
The rest of the morning drags on, each minute stretching out longer than the last. Margaret seems determined to fill the time, to hold onto every second she has left with Rafe. They play cards at the kitchen table, and I can hear her giggling as she teaches him a dance she learned from TikTok. Rafe actually laughs—loud and genuine, like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.
I stay in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, but really, I’m just watching them. Watching how easily they slip into this rhythm, like nothing’s changed, like Rafe hasn’t been gone for so long, like everything’s still okay.
But then a thought creeps into my mind, uninvited and heavy: Will he show up for this one? Will he hold the baby?
It’s a question I don’t want to ask, but it’s there, sitting in the back of my mind, because I can’t shake the feeling that he might walk away again—just when things start to matter the most.
Margaret insisted on getting ice cream at the beach, her face lighting up with excitement like nothing was different. She’s ahead of us now, lost in her own world as she walks down the boardwalk.
Rafe and I trail behind, side by side but not really together. He keeps his hands in his pockets, glancing at me every so often, but neither of us says a word. The silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to walk away again once this is all over.
“She’s growing up so fast, isn’t she?” Rafe says, his voice quieter than usual.
“Yeah, she is,” I reply, my words simple, but they carry more weight than they should.
Rafe nods, his gaze following Margaret as she walks ahead, her energy still bright, her innocence still untouched. There’s a softness in his expression as he watches her, something almost wistful, like he’s realizing how much time has passed while he’s been away.
For a moment, it feels like the world slows down, and the distance between us feels a little smaller—until the silence falls again, heavier than before.
I shift the conversation, needing to know—needing something real before he leaves.
“Um... I was wondering if you’d be able to stay for a while. When the baby’s born.”
Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He looks ahead, jaw tight, like he’s turning the question over carefully in his mind. I can see the weight of it in his silence—the idea of staying, of showing up this time.
His face stays unreadable, but when he finally speaks, there’s a hesitation in his voice that says more than the words do.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I can commit to that right now.”
“Rafe, please,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “At least be there. You’ve missed every doctor’s appointment so far... the least you could do is be there when the baby comes.”
My voice shakes, not out of anger—but something closer to exhaustion. To hope, maybe. I’m not asking for everything. Just that.
Rafe’s jaw tightens, and when he speaks, there’s an edge to his voice.
“Don’t start with that. I don’t have time to make every single doctor’s appointment. I have a life too, you know.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
He cuts me off, sharper this time.
“But what? You think I don’t care about this baby? That I don’t want to be there for you?”
“I didn’t say that, Rafe,” I reply quietly, but the hurt is already there—pressed between the lines of everything we didn’t say.
Rafe’s frustration boils over, his voice rising as he snaps back, more defensive now.
“But that’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? That I don’t care—just because I can’t be at every damn appointment?”
I flinch at the intensity in his voice. Whatever fragile calm we had is gone now, replaced by the same wall he always throws up when things get too real.
He looks away, jaw clenched, then calls out, louder than he needs to, “Margaret! We’re heading back!”
His tone makes it clear—this conversation is over. Whether I got the answer I needed or not doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
The silence in the car is thick, stretching between us like miles. Margaret’s soft snores drift from the back seat, the only sound breaking the tension.
I stare out the window, the landscape blurring past, but all I can feel is the weight pressing down on me—loneliness wrapping itself around my shoulders like a heavy blanket.
I want to say something, anything, but the thought of opening up to Rafe feels pointless. He’d probably just call me dramatic, brush it off like he always does. So I stay quiet, holding it all in, because it feels safer than being dismissed.
—
We finally make it back to the house. Margaret heads upstairs to her room without a word, worn out from the day.
Rafe and I step into the bedroom, the air thick with tension. He goes straight to his bag, focused, methodical—folding, zipping, organizing like it’s the only thing he has control over.
I move around him, pretending to tidy up, but really just trying to fill the silence. We don’t speak. There’s too much to say and no safe way to say it, so we let the silence speak for us—loud and aching.
I stand near the dresser, pretending to rearrange things that don’t need rearranging. My voice comes out softer than I expect.
“You’ll call her, right? Not just for birthdays?”
Rafe pauses, his hands stilling over the half-zipped bag. He doesn’t look at me right away, just stares down like he’s weighing what to say.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Of course I will.”
But something in the way he says it—too quick, too automatic—makes my chest tighten. I nod anyway, pretending to believe him, because it’s easier than pushing for more.
I nod, but it doesn’t feel like a promise—just words he thinks I want to hear.
Trying to soften the silence, I shift the weight in the room.
“I was thinking maybe… next time you visit, we could all go to Orlando or something. Take Margaret to Disney. You know, like a family trip.”
I try to keep my tone light, casual, but there’s hope tucked beneath it—thin and fragile. I don’t look at him right away. I don’t want to see his face if he’s already thinking of all the reasons it won’t happen.
Rafe lets out a short breath, his tone already edged with irritation.
“You want me to spend money on a whole trip to Disney? Do you even know how expensive that is?”
I look down, jaw tightening, the sting immediate. I wasn’t asking for luxury—just a moment. A memory. Something that might hold us together a little longer.
“I just thought it might be nice,” I say quietly, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “For Margaret.”
He doesn’t respond right away, and in the silence, it’s clear—I asked for too much again.
Rafe sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his voice still edged with irritation.
“Just don’t suggest things you know we can’t afford.”
I nod slowly, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. Of course. I should’ve known better than to hope out loud.
“It wasn’t about the money,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “It was about doing something... together.”
But he’s already turned back to his bag, and I’m left standing there, feeling foolish for wanting more than he’s willing to give.
—
The moment is here, and it feels like time has slowed down. Margaret and I stand at the front door, silent, watching as Rafe hovers awkwardly in the doorway. His bags are packed, the car’s engine idling outside.
There’s something heavy in the air, something unspoken, and it hangs between us like a wall neither of us knows how to break.
Rafe shifts his weight, glancing between Margaret and me, but neither of us knows what to say. We all feel the same thing—this is it. This is the last time we’ll see him for who knows how long. And somehow, even though it’s been this way before, it feels different now.
Margaret’s the first to speak, her voice small, almost fragile. “Take care, Dad.”
Rfe looks down at Margaret, his expression both soft and pained. He responds to her goodbye with a gentle smile.
“I’ll see you later, alright little one?”
I can’t bring myself to say anything. The words feel stuck, tangled up in all the things I never got to ask. Instead, I just stand there, watching as he pulls away and walks out the door.
Rafe steps out, the door clicking shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels even heavier. I turn to Margaret, my heart aching as I take in the sadness etched across her face. It’s there in the way her shoulders slump, the quiet tremble of her lip, and the way her eyes shine with unshed tears—her brave face faltering under the weight of everything she doesn’t know how to say.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask softly, my voice breaking through the quiet.
She blinks, as if trying to push the tears back, but they fall anyway, one by one, and I know she’s holding onto the kind of hurt only a child feels when someone they love walks away.
“I... I don’t want him to go, Mom,” she whispers, her voice small and fragile.
“Well, he has to go, but he’ll be back before you know it,” I say, trying to sound more reassuring than I feel.
Margaret’s response is quick, her voice sharp with both annoyance and sadness.
“What, in another four months?”
I feel a pang in my chest at the bitterness in her tone.
“He has to work, sweetheart. Who else is gonna keep the lights on?” I answer, my words sounding more defensive than I intend.
She nods slowly, understanding the practicalities of his work, but her expression says everything—the disappointment is too heavy for her to just brush aside. She turns away slightly, trying to hide the way her shoulders slump.
“I know,” she mutters, but I can see the sadness still lingering in her eyes.
Margaret doesn’t say anything else. She just nods, her shoulders stiff as she turns away. Without another word, she heads for the stairs, her steps quiet but heavy, like she’s carrying something too big for her small frame.
I watch her go, the sound of her footsteps fading as she disappears upstairs. A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t chase after her. Not now. I know she needs space to process this, to make sense of what we both already feel.
The house feels emptier, quieter, and I’m left standing there, with the weight of everything left unsaid.
