Peter talked about his wife Elma and how she’d stayed by his side for forty years.
“She adores Dane more than she adores me,” he said, chuckling into his beer.
“Because she has taste,” Dane shot back.
We all laughed.
“And… do you have any children?” I asked gently, almost hesitantly, because I could see the way people sometimes flinched at that question. A tiny, familiar slice of regret cutthrough me. Yes, I had a daughter once, but she was gone.“Yes…a daughter. But…she’s dead.This is what I say when asked this same question.
I felt it immediately, the shift in their expressions, the careful softness in their eyes, the way people leaned in slightly, unsure, tender.
Peter cleared his throat, voice low and steady. “My daughter, Anita,” he began. “She was…she was born with complications. The cord around her neck, multiple disabilities, things doctors now understand better, but back then… it was a mess of unknowns. Medical teams, hospitals… nothing we could do. Not the way you can now.”
I listened, frozen in awe and empathy, heart tightening in recognition of the weight of his story.
“As she grew,” Peter continued, “her needs became more… complex. The care we could give at home wasn’t enough. Every year it got harder, every milestone… more challenging. That’s when Dane stepped in.” He glanced toward Dane, admiration threading his words. “He built a place. For her, for all the children who needed more than the world could offer. A proper home, proper care. Everything.”
I felt my chest swell with something indescribable, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and awe.
“Holding Space,” he said proudly. “Right on the waterfront. Gardens everywhere—roses, sunflowers, dahlias. Proper fruit trees. A library. A gallery where we sell the kids’ artwork. Pools for therapy. Everything state of the art. Some families live there. Some visit. Elma basically runs the entire place now.”
My chest warmed.
“That’s… beautiful,” I whispered.
“It’s necessary,” Dane corrected softly.
We talked about work after that his company, the shipments, the chaos behind the scenes. Carrie chimed in about my article, my deadlines, my avoidance. .
She nudged me under the table. “Penn. You are too calm. Spill it.”
I smirked. “Later. Maybe.”
She rolled her eyes. “I always knew it was Dane, you know.”
I blinked. “Youwhat?”
She nodded smugly. “Saw him at Gracie’s funeral. Talked to him. Connected the dots ages ago. Don’t be mad. I was waiting for you to figure it out.”
I should’ve been angry.
But all I felt was shock and something like relief.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered, laughing.
The moment felt good. Big. Healing.
Until the gate creaked.
And he walked in.
Blake.
Holding flowers.
My entire body went cold.
He looked…ruined.
