My phone shows three missed calls from the nursing station. Time to get back to what I’m good at, what I understand, what won’t ask more of me than I think I can give.
As I walk toward the nurses’ station, I try not to think about Henry sleeping peacefully in his crib, probably clutching the stuffed elephant Alexa bought him. I try not to think about Ash working on homework at the kitchen table, maybe wondering when I will have time to see his finished LEGO project.
Try not to think about Alexa tucking them both in, handling everything with the competence and care that makes her so easy to depend on.
Try not to think about how it would feel to come home to that instead of an empty house and leftover takeout.
But the image of that family in the lobby stays with me. The father’s easy competence, the children’s obvious trust in him, the sense that they belonged together in a way that made everything else secondary.
Because thinking about it makes me want things I’m not sure I deserve. Things I’m definitely not sure I’m brave enough to fight for.
CHAPTER 25
ALEXA
The outdoor terrace of the Greenhouse Café feels like dining inside a fairy tale. Our small bistro table sits among an artful arrangement of potted plants—trailing ivy spilling from hanging baskets overhead, clusters of snake plants standing sentinel in large ceramic pots, and delicate ferns creating natural privacy screens between tables. Mason jars filled with wildflowers serve as centerpieces, and string lights wound through the surrounding greenery give the whole space a magical quality, even in daylight.
From our table, I can see Ash crouched by the small pond about thirty feet away, completely absorbed in watching a family of ducks paddle contentedly through the water. He’s close enough that I can keep an eye on him but far enough that our conversation won’t reach his ears.
“This place is incredible,” I tell Esme as she settles across from me with her own coffee, an elaborate creation topped with foam art that looks too pretty to drink. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”
“It’s my new favorite Sunday spot. Perfect for deep conversations.” Esme gives me a knowing look. “Speaking of which, you mentioned you had news when you texted?”
I take a deep breath, the words I’ve been practicing all morning suddenly feeling heavier. “I’m selling the house.”
Esme’s cup freezes halfway to her lips. “What? When did you decide this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it since last week, but I made the final decision last night.” I watch Ash through the space between two large planters as he crouches by the pond’s edge, completely absorbed in watching the ducks. “It’s too big for just the two of us, and honestly, I think we need a fresh start.”
“This is about Jordan, isn’t it?” Her voice is gentle but direct.
Of course she sees right through me. “Partly. But it’s also practical. The maintenance costs, the property taxes… If I move somewhere smaller, maybe a townhouse across town, I could reduce our monthly expenses significantly.”
“And get away from daily reminders of your complicated neighbor situation.”
“That too.” I fidget with my coffee sleeve. “I also have my second interview Tuesday. With Hauser & Associates.”
“Alexa, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you lead with that?” Esme’s excitement is immediate and genuine. “Tell me everything.”
“It’s for a marketing coordinator position. The salary would be at least seventy thousand to start, plus full benefits.” The numbers still feel surreal when I say them out loud. “If I get it, between that income and selling the house, Ash and I could really build something stable.”
“That’s incredible. You must be so excited.”
“I am. Nervous too, but excited.” I pause, watching a duck lead her ducklings in a perfect line across the pond. “The thing is, even if I don’t get this particular job, I’ve decided I need to give Jordan my notice.”
Esme sets down her cup completely. “Really? Even though the pay is so good?”
“The pay is amazing, but I can’t keep doing this to myself.” The admission feels like a dam breaking. “Working in his house every day, surrounded by reminders of him, pretending that being near him doesn’t affect me… It’s killing me, Esme.”
“What do you mean?”
I stare into my latte, gathering the courage to voice what I’ve been feeling. “Every morning I walk into his house and see his coffee mug in the sink. His jacket thrown over a chair. His books on the side table. I can smell his cologne in the hallway.”
“Oh, honey.”
“And then he comes home—ifhe comes home—and treats me like I’m just the help. Polite and professional, and distant. Like those moments between us never happened.” My voice catches slightly. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”
Esme reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re absolutely right to prioritize your emotional well-being. No job is worth that kind of daily pain.”
