10.Anna
Three weeks. It was enough time for the impossible to start feeling routine, for the sharp edges of our arrangement to wear smooth with daily use.
I knew the exact weight and rhythm of Jack's footsteps in the hallway. They were lighter in the morning with his first coffee, slower and heavier in the evening when exhaustion finally caught up. I knew he took his coffee black at 6 AM, switched to green tea at 3 PM, and that he unconsciously ran his hand through his hair when a call wasn't going well. I knew the particular, rare tone of his voice when Daisy did something that made him smile, a low rumble that seemed to surprise even him.
I catalogued these details not out of design, but because survival had always meant reading the room, anticipating moods. Now, the room was a penthouse,and the moods belonged to a man whose shifts dictated the weather of my world.
I recognized the domesticity of it all as the most dangerous development yet. A trap woven from ordinary moments.
Tonight, I was in the kitchen, a place I'd once only cleaned but now occasionally occupied. Daisy had been reluctant about carrots. So, with a paring knife, I was carefully carving a cucumber into a bumpy green boat, with carrot sailors and a bell pepper flag.
"It's the S.S. Veggie!" Daisy announced, her chin propped on the counter.
I was laughing, explaining Captain Carrot's daring adventures, when I heard the front door. The footsteps were the evening ones—heavier, deliberate. I didn't turn, but my spine straightened a fraction, my body attuned to his presence before my mind caught up.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase still in the other. His eyes swept the scene: Daisy on her stool, me with my ridiculous vegetable sculpture, the warm light, the smell of roasting chicken from the oven.
Something in his face shifted. The hard lines around his mouth softened.
"What's all this?" he asked. His voice wasn't arctic cold. It was curious. Almost warm.
"Anna made a boat!" Daisy declared, pointing. "So the carrots aren't scared to get eaten."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, genuine and unguarded. "Strategic," he said, his gaze meetingmine over Daisy's head. There was no malice in it. Just a shared acknowledgment of the absurd lengths we go to for children.
It made my heart ache.
Daisy scrambled down and ran to her backpack, pulling out a worksheet. "Look! I got a star! For reading!"
He set down his briefcase and crouched, taking the paper with a solemnity it deserved. "A gold star. That's excellent, bug." He looked up at me. "Thank you for helping her practice."
The gratitude was simple, direct. Not the grudging "adequately" of before. It felt real.
My cheeks warmed. "She did all the work. She's a natural."
We ate at the dining table, another new, unspoken habit. It had started with Daisy insisting I stay for a meal I'd helped prepare, and Jack, after a silent, tense moment, had pulled out a chair. Now, it happens more often than not.
Tonight, Jack turned to me. "Margaret called today. She said the attendance for your afternoon reading session has doubled since you started."
I nearly choked on my water. "She's being generous. The kids just like new voices."
"She said you reorganized the lending library by reading level. That you secured a donation from the bookstore on Elm Street." His tone was careful, but there was something underneath. Pride, maybe. Or approval.
I shrugged, pushing a pea around my plate. "I just talked to the owner. Told her about the foundation. She remembered Elena."
He was quiet for a moment, his fork paused midair. "Elena would have done the same. Charmed them into submission."
It was the first time he'd mentioned her so casually, without the accompanying shadow of pain. It felt like a step, a fragile bridge built over the hostility between us.
After dinner, he surprised me. "I'll handle bath time," he said, scooping a giggling Daisy into his arms.
I busied myself cleaning the kitchen, but I could hear Daisy's delighted shrieks echoing down the hall. At one point, Jack's low voice rumbled something, and Daisy's laughter peeled out, bright and unrestrained. The sound was foreign, beautiful music in this quiet place.
When he emerged, Daisy was in her pajamas, her hair a damp, dark cloud. She grabbed my hand. "Story time. You do the voices."
Jack followed us to her room. He didn't leave. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as I settled into the armchair and Daisy climbed into my lap. The book was The Paper Bag Princess. I gave the dragon a pompous roar and the princess a voice full of clever determination. Daisy was entranced.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack's posture soften. The harsh line of his mouth relaxed. He was watching us with something that looked almost like contentment.
