The morning after the baby shower, I finally tell them about the job.
It’s been sitting in my inbox for weeks—an email from Stanford’s History Department, inviting me to interview for a position I applied for months ago, before everything fell apart. Before Sophie collapsed. Before our lives rearranged themselves into something I couldn’t have predicted. I’d almost forgotten about it, buried under the chaos of hospitals and recovery and learning how to be part of something bigger than myself.
But the email is still there, unanswered, and the deadline is approaching fast.
“Stanford?” Sophie repeats, her voice carefully neutral in a way that tells me she’s trying very hard not to react. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, the remnants of breakfast scattered between us, and I can see her processing the implications even as she struggles to keep her expression steady. “They called you, I.. it was one of the reasons I—“ she paused, before speaking again. “And it’s in California?”
“It is.” I set down my coffee cup, watching both their faces for signs of how this is landing. Cassian has gone very still across the table, his own coffee forgotten, his analytical mind clearly working through scenarios I can only guess at. “Before everything, when you heard me talking to them, I didn’t get back to any of their emails. It was a long shot— and after everything I got a chance to check again, and saw they don’t have openings often, and the competition is fierce. But, I gave it a shot, and I honestly didn’t expect to hear back.”
“But you did hear back,” Cassian says slowly, each word measured and careful. “They want to interview you.”
“They want to interview me. It’s the first round—phone screening—but if that goes well, they’ll fly me out for the full process. Multiple days of meetings, sample lectures, dinner with the search committee. The whole academic dog-and-pony show.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implications. Stanford is three thousand miles away. Stanford is one of the most prestigious history departments in the country. Stanford is an opportunity that professors dream about and rarely receive.
Stanford is also completely incompatible with the life we’re building here.
Sophie’s hand drifts to her belly, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as self-soothing, her fingers pressing against the small curve where our daughter is growing. The movement makes something twist in my chest—guilt and longing and fear all tangled together in a knot I don’t know how to untie.
“I don’t have to pursue it,” I say quickly, before either of them can respond, the words tumbling out in a rush of preemptive reassurance. “I’m telling you because I believe in honesty, not because I’ve made any decisions. This affects all of us. It should be a conversation, not an announcement.”
Sophie’s hand finds her belly again, that protective gesture that’s become so familiar. “What do you want, Adrian? Not what’s practical or responsible or good for the family—what do you actually want?”
The question catches me off guard in its directness. I take a moment to really consider it, to push past the layers of guilt and obligation and examine the truth underneath.
My career has always been part of my identity—the thing I built when everything else felt uncertain, the achievement that proved I was worth something. Walking away from an opportunity like Stanford feels like abandoning a piece of myself.
“I want to see if I can get it,” I admit finally, the words scraping against my throat on the way out. “Not because I want to leave—God, that’s the last thing I want—but because I’ve spent my entire career building toward something like this. And a part of me needs to know if I’m good enough. If all the work meant something.”
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