But in the fraction of a second that comes before that joy, my dream dies.
The world is not what I thought it would be when I first dreamed of becoming a father.
Everything is harder. More expensive. More competitive.
In these conditions, with a child, there’s no way I can quit my job at Ubisoft and take the risk I wanted to take just five seconds ago.
Not if I want to be the provider I need to be.
The provider my father taught me to be.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
I don’t know if my current job will be enough. Only time will tell, but one thing is certain:
I’ll never start my own indie game studio now.
Chapter 16
Rachel
Ibarely manage to grab Cayce before his small fingers reach the dancing flames. My heart slams against my ribs as I pull him away from the cast iron fire stove nestled in the corner of Jocelyne’s cabin living room.
“Hot,” he protests, squirming in my arms. “I just wanted to see—”
“No touching.” I press my face into his dark hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with the sharp winter air still clinging to him. “Yes, it’s hot. That’s why you can’t touch fire, baby.”
Around us, the cabin buzzes with the controlled chaos of arrival. Bags crowd the entryway like sleeping animals, winter boots leaving dark puddles on the wooden floors. Martine’s voice carries from the kitchen, directing Surinder about proper placement of the groceries.
Of course, the way I placed stuff wasn’t good enough.
Anjali’s kids—or should I say, her adults—are loudly catching up with Jocelyne, sharing news from CEGEP and university.
And I stand here, clutching my son, trying to remember how to breathe.
“But Daddy says I’m brave,” Cayce argues, still fixated on the flames. “Like a dragon.”
The mention of Karan sends a fresh wave of anger through me. He should be here, helping me wrangle our adventure-seeking son. Instead, he’s probably still hunched over his computer in Montréal fixing someone else’s mistakes.
“Even dragons can get burned.” I set Cayce down but keep hold of his hand. “Why don’t you help me unpack? Then maybe we can make hot chocolate.”
His face lights up at the suggestion. Those happy eyes remind me so much of Karan that it hurts. Both twins inherited their father’s expressive brown eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners when they smile. Usually, these similarities warm my heart.
Today, they sting like tiny daggers.
“Can I have marshmallows?”
“Three,” I say firmly, already anticipating Martine’s protest that he should have morebecause it’s Christmas.
If Martine had her way, my sons would walk away from this cabin with diabetes and insomnia.
We head toward our bags, and Corey appears from wherever he was hiding, drawn by the mention of hot chocolate. Both boys start pulling things from their backpacks, which creates more chaos, but I can’t bring myself to stop them. Their excitement, their pure joy at being here, is the only thing keeping me from screaming.
The fire crackles behind us, throwing dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, snow falls in thick flakes and coats my rental car.The ferry crossing feels like a distant nightmare, but its effects linger in my tight shoulders and pounding head.
Two weeks. I just have to get through two weeks of this. Two weeks of Martine’s hovering, of Surinder’s disapproving looks, of pretending everything’s fine for the kids.
Two weeks until I can ask their father for a divorce.
