And then, he’s gone.
I find a slice of week-old pizza in the fridge and eat it cold, washing it down with a glass of tap water. No ceremony. No dishes. Just survival.
I carry Esme to her bed—her own bed, her own sheets, her familiar stuffed animals—and tuck her in without waking her. She barely stirs.
Then I crawl into my own bed, and when I wake, it’s light outagain.
It’s the next morning.
And from down the hall, I hear it—her voice, clear and insistent.
“MaMa! Sant! Sant!” She’s running into the room, cloth croissant in hand, like we’ve never skipped a beat.
I pull her into bed and kiss her warm, round cheeks.
“Papa?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
And my heart lurches—because somehow, in just a handful of days, this little girl has already grown used to having her Papa close.
I grab my phone, hoping for a message from him. Instead, it’s Laney:
How’s our little shining star doing? Good to be home? Call me.
So I do.
“You told him you don’t needrescuing?” she says, drawing out her words. “Interesting.”
“Well, of course I don’t. The whole damned thing is so patriarchal I can’t stand it. I’ll be home full-time with Esme baking pies and ironing handkerchiefs while he jets back and forth from the city? It’s bullshit.”
“Oh, totally,” she deadpans. “He’s such an ass. All that crap he pulled last week—the consult, the medivac, planting himself at the hospital—classic patriarchy at work.”
“Come on. That’s different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe, in his eyes, you do need rescuing. It’s not impossible that you’re sending some mixed messages, my friend.”
“So what would you have me do? Give up my job? My house? You? All to buildhisversion of some happy little family by the sea?”
I hear it as I say it—how overblown I sound. Defensive. Tired.
“Is thatreallywhat he asked you to do?” she asks calmly. “Or did you hear it that way because you’re scared?”
“Scared of what?” I snap, but the bite is more fear than fight.
“Of letting yourself need someone. Of sharing choices. Of not being the only one in charge. Scared of admitting that—although youcando it alone—it’s not really what you want.”
Ouch. Truth hurts the most when it lands square.
I take a breath.
“She called him Papa yesterday,” I whisper. “When he dropped us off.”
Laney waits a beat, her voice softer now. “And…?”
“And yes—it thrilled me. And terrified me. And confused the hell out of me.”
“Sounds about right.” She laughs. “Rhea, everything worth having comes with a cost. The trick is figuring out whether the price of having it is higher than the price of walking away.”
I’m crying now.
