Page 20 of The Golden Hour

She tries to give her mother a smile, before another pain hits her stomach. Melissa immediately drops to her knees, coaching Honey through breathing.

“In and out, baby,” Melissa coos. “Good girl, there you go—my strong little honeybee.”

In. Out. In. Out.

Honey grits her teeth and breathes through it, holding onto her mother’s hand with a desperate grip. Eventually, it eases and she sighs, sinking deeper into the chair.

Her father eyes her worriedly.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call the doctor?”

“His nurse said he was golfing today,” Honey says, shaking her head and then immediately regretting it when the room wobbles.

“He’s your goddamn doctor,” her father growls, slamming two pieces together harder than necessary. Honey jumps and Melissa lays a steady hand on her shoulder.

“He could be on the fucking moon and still need to answer you,” Phil snaps. “And that damn husband of yours, for that matter. What if something were to happen? How the fuck would we reach him? Telegram? Fucking smoke signal? You’re pregnant, Honey⁠⁠—”

“Phil,” Melissa says softly, but it slices right through Phil’s increasingly loud words rattling against Honey’s headache. “Easy.”

Phil winces.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says to Melissa, before looking at Honey. “Sorry, honeybee, but I don’t want to bite my tongue anymore.”

“So, don’t,” Honey says, begging. “Say what you’re thinking, Daddy.”

Phil looks at his daughter for a long moment and sighs.

“You know I’ve always loved Mason. He’s always treated you with respect. He loves you. In my eyes, he was good enough for my little girl. He proved it. But lately… I don’t like what I’m seeing. Not one fucking bit—” he says, amending. “Your mother and I do not like what we’re seeing. Neither do Marlene and Rob.”

It’s like her father’s words are the ones she needs to allow the irritation and frustration to build to anger. She hates being bitter or mean. She hates how this pain, this discomfort, has made her so. But she’s just so damn angry at Mason, and at herself. For being weak. For not demanding better.

When another pain hits her stomach, she snaps. Enough is enough.

“I’m tired,” Honey laughs humorlessly. “I’m so damn tired all the time. I’m sick and dizzy and exhausted from the time I wake up until the time I go to sleep. And my husband…”

Her hand goes to her belly.

“He’s just gone. Mentally, physically, he’s gone. And I can’t reach him, and we’re having a baby, and he doesn’t even know her!”

Honey is crying angry tears by the end of her rant, her voice having climbed to a pitch she hasn’t reached in years. She hates yelling. She hates confrontation. She hates the way anger feels in her body—ugly and unfamiliar.

But she hates more the way she’s been biting her tongue and just letting Mason do whatever he wants to do even more. She’s changing with this pregnancy.

She’s not just Honey Carpenter, Mason’s wife.

She’s Honey Carpenter, Daisy’s mother.

Daisy is relying on her to keep her safe. Daisy is relying on her to know when something is wrong and do something about it. Daisy is relying on her to teach her what love looks like.

And it sure as hell doesn’t look like this.

If Daisy called her crying, sick and pregnant and lonely, saying her husband was never home, was missing appointments, and breaking promises.

Honey would be in the car before the call ended.

Then she looks at her parents and finally understands their frustration.

“What the hell was his excuse for missing the shower?” her father snarls, shaking his head as he aggressively screws the pieces of the crib together.