She beams, completely unbothered. “Memories, darlings! I’m going to frame that one.”
When Xavier finally lets go, he squints at me. “Why’s she crying? Did you make her cry, Bradley Bear?”
I shake my head, smiling despite the tears. He crosses his arms, pretending to look fierce.
“Do I need to punch someone? Say the word, Liv.”
“No, Xav.” I can’t help laughing. “You can put your muscles away.”
He grins, flexing anyway. “You sure? My knuckles are ready.”
Brad groans. “Jesus Christ, mate.”
Mum sighs, beaming at the chaos she created. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the heaviness in my chest lifts. Not gone. But lighter. Because with or without Sebastian, I have this. My family. And for now, that’s enough.
By the time I slide into the booth at The Willow & Vine, the restaurant’s already buzzing—fairy lights strung along the ceiling, the low hum of chatter wrapping around us like music. Across from me, Imogen and Isla are practically glowing. It’s written all over their faces. That smug, floaty happiness that only comes from kids tucked safely into bed by their dads, who run bedtime like a well-oiled circus.
“If Harrison feeds Joseph sugar again, I’m changing my number and moving towns,” Imogen mutters, stabbing at her pasta with unnecessary force.
Isla laughs, swirling her wine. “You said that last time, and then he sent you a photo of Joseph asleep with a Freddo Frog still in his hand. You melted.”
“That was cute,” Imogen defends, scowling even as her mouth twitches.
“Admit it,” Isla teases. “You’re going soft.”
Zoe smirks over her glass. “He’s a Price man, babe. Sugar and bad decisions are in their DNA.”
Imogen guffaws, nearly spilling her wine. “That’s rich, coming from you. You literally bribed Michael with sex to get him to clean the house.”
Zoe points her fork like a weapon. “And it worked. So, technically, that was strategic planning.”
We burst out laughing, the kind of laughter that comes easy, unforced. The kind that’s been missing from my week. Between myself, Zoe, Isla, Imogen, and Amelia, the table’s already littered with half-empty glasses, handbags, and banter that loosens something tight in my chest. Yet still, somewhere in that noise, I think about another dad. The one who doesn’t text anymore. The one whose son still tugs at the edges of my heart.
God, I miss Teddy. His laugh. His obsession with dinosaurs. His cars. The way he’d wait for me at the school gate, bouncing on his toes like I was the most exciting part of his day. That ache settles deep in my chest, and no matter how much wine I drink or how many times I tell myself I made the right choice, it still pains me.
Zoe reaches for her glass, glancing around the table. “Okay, now that everyone’s settled and halfway tipsy, someone please tell me I’m not the only one whose overgrown child thinks ‘babysitting’ his own kid counts as an Olympic sport.”
Imogen snorts. “What kid?”
Zoe smirks. “Sprinkles, babe. C’mon. Don’t tell Michael you don’t classify his cat as a daughter… he’ll murder you.”
That earns a round of laughter loud enough to draw a look from the next table.
Isla wipes at her eyes, grinning. “You think it changes? Two kids later, and I still get texts asking if Vegemite toast is a balanced dinner.”
Amelia chokes on her wine. “Honestly? That sounds better than the time Bradley asked me if detergent expires.”
Imogen groans. “Men really are just slightly larger toddlers.”
“Speaking of toddlers”—Isla raises a brow—“when are you and Michael thinking of having an actual one?”
“We’re content with just the two of us. And Sprinkles,” Zoe answers surely, as she swirls the wine in her glass. “He’s never pushed, and I’ve never pretended to be ready. Considering how often we do it, it’s a bloody miracle we haven’t accidentally multiplied already.”
Imogen nearly chokes on her pasta. “Miracle’s one word for it.” Then, with that mischievous glint she’s famous for, she tilts her head toward Amelia. “Your turn, sunshine. When are you and Officer Mitchell adding a little one to the mix?”
Amelia blushes when the attention shifts to her. “Oh, we will. One day. But there’s no rush.”
Zoe leans over, squeezing her hand. All this talk of happy endings and baby plans is doing absolutely nothing for me. Still, watching them, these women, my family, smiling, laughing, sharing stories like their worlds are finally solid… it makes something warm settle low in my chest. I’m genuinely happy for them. Really, I am. They deserve it. Every soft, safe, messy bit of love they’ve found.
