That’s what I loved about Hannah. No guilt, no judgment, just joy for my joy.
“You should do something sexy for Dan,” she said, suddenly animated.
I raised an eyebrow. “Define sexy.”
“Send him a photo.”
I nearly spat out my wine. “A photo?”
“Yeah! Something tasteful but flirty. A reminder that beneath the laundry and meal planning, there’s still a vixen lurking.”
“The last time I tried that,” I said, “my child walked in mid-selfie and asked if I was doing yoga.”
Hannah howled. “So maybe no photos. But a cheeky note in his bag, a message, something playful.”
I considered it, smiling. “You might be onto something.”
“Obviously.” She leaned back smugly. “Now, tell me, any roleplay?”
“Hannah!”
“What? I need material for my fantasies. My last date ended with a man trying to impress me by quoting Joe Rogan.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink. “You attract chaos.”
“I am chaos.”
And just like that, I felt lighter.
When the laughter died down, we lingered over dessert, sharing stories about disastrous dates, mine about rediscovering romance. We laughed until our sides hurt. Ruby even conveniently napped in her push chair, allowing us a full 40 minutes of girl gossip.
It really was bliss.
But later, as I walked home, I felt that familiar pang of guilt again. I thought of Lou, of the playgroup mums, of all the women quietly drowning in the same fatigue I used to know so well.
And I wondered if there was a way to bridge that gap, to share hope without showing off, to remind them that love can come back without making them feel like failures.
Maybe there was. Maybe it started small with a comment, a suggestion or a gentle reminder that passion isn’t lost forever.
Or maybe, for now, it was enough just to be grateful.
Because for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t pretending.
I was happy.
The thing about happiness, I’ve realised, is that it sneaks in quietly but also takes work. One minute, you can’t figure out why you harbour so much resentment towards someone you once adored, and the next, you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, watching them make a terrible cup of coffee with thekind of intensity usually reserved for surgeons performing brain surgery.
I caught him mid-stir, grimacing as he tried to dissolve some instant coffee like it was a life-or-death problem. I leaned against the doorframe, pretending to scroll through my phone, but really just observing him. He had that slight frown, the one that made him look impossibly focused, his hair in that just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of chaos that somehow worked for him, but would have looked criminal on anyone else. And yet, I wanted him. Right there. Immediately.
I bit my lip, telling myself to be patient. But the idea alone made a small fire flicker in my chest, the kind of fire that had nothing to do with caffeine.
Breakfast was, predictably, chaos. Ruby had decided that cereal could double as confetti, and Oscar was kicking off because I wouldn’t let him pout Sophie in a choke hold. Dan and I exchanged smiles over their heads, the kind of small, private look that said we survived another morning without losing our minds.
Sometimes, I would glance at Dan and think: this is it. This is what normal people look like when they’re happy. And yet, there was an added thrill in knowing that normal for us now also included stolen kisses, unexpected touches, and spicy nights of pure pleasure.
Later that afternoon, I found myself collapsing into the sofa after dragging the children through what I can only describe as an epic, miniature battlefield of arts and crafts. Crayons were everywhere, glitter had somehow embedded itself in the carpet, and half-finished macaroni necklaces littered the coffee table.
Dan appeared behind me, leaning casually against the doorframe, the soft cotton of his shirt brushing my shoulder. “Survived?” he asked.
