The classroom smells like glue sticks and construction paper. Beckett tugs Warren straight to a low table in the back, his untied shoelaces slapping against the linoleum.
“Look!” He waves his arms over a messy little village made of popsicle sticks and cotton balls. “That one’s mine.”
Warren bends, hands braced on his knees, as if Beckett’s creation is a masterpiece at the Met. “You built this? All by yourself?”
“With some help from Miss Jenny,” Beckett admits, chest puffing anyway. “It’s our snow village. I made it look like the Christmas tree village we went to. Mine has a sled.”
I cross my arms, leaning in the doorway, trying not to smile too wide at the way Warren’s face lights up.
“A sled,” Warren states more than asks, crouching down until his eyes are level with Beckett’s. “That’s genius. I never thought of that. When I was your age, I was still figuring out how to keep glue off my fingers.”
Beckett laughs, his eyes crinkling just like Warren’s. “Mine didn’t stick right at first. But then I held it longer. And now it’s stuck forever.” He runs his hand along the crooked sled, proud.
Stuck forever.
“It is perfect,” Warren coos softly, not looking at the project anymore but at his son.
The silence stretches a second too long, warm and heavy. I clear my throat. “Alright, Becks. It’s late. We need to get home.”
Beckett shakes his head hard, curls bouncing. “Five more minutes.”
“We need to go, Bud.” My voice is firmer now. “Bedtime.”
He turns to Warren, lips pressed together in his best pout. “You used to read to me. Why don’t you anymore?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into a still pond. Warren’s shoulders tense, his mouth opening then closing.
“Beckett—” I start, my throat tightening.
“I want Warren to read to me. Please, Mommy?” His voice is small now, all hope and no manipulation. “Just one book.”
I look at Warren. His eyes are on me, searching, as if he’s waiting for permission to breathe.
I exhale slowly. “One book,” I say. “Then bed.”
Beckett whoops, throwing his arms around Warren’s neck. “Yes! You have to do the voices.”
Warren laughs, low and shaky. “Of course I’ll do the voices.” He looks at me again, quiet, grateful.
I just nod.
Beckett grabs both our hands, tugging us toward the door like he’s pulling us into his little world, his grin wide enough to crack me in two.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t resist. I let him lead.
Beckett chatters the whole way home from the back seat, his legs swinging against the booster as he rehashes every detail Warren already saw in the classroom. By the time I turn into our driveway, he’s yawning between sentences, still going on, but winding down.
Warren’s car pulls in behind mine, headlights sweeping across the porch before cutting out. I sit for a second, hands resting on the steering wheel. All the shouting, all the apologies—they’re behind us. What comes next is the question.
I glance at the headlights behind me as they fade to dark.
I haven’t spoken to Warren about any of it—Nicole calling on Wednesday to say he withdrew the petition, Blake telling me earlier this week that Warren showed up at his door. Those things don’t erase the hurt. They don’t make forgiveness simple. But they sit in the back of my mind now, softening edges I’ve fought hard to keep sharp, even against my intense desire to believe everything he's telling me.
Beckett slams the car door and dashes up the steps. I blow out a slow breath and follow, hearing Warren’s footsteps fall in behind mine. He lingers in the entry, shoulders squared like he’s waiting to be told to leave.
“Go on,” I murmur.
He nods once and trails after Beckett.
